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'MISSING' 


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Deeply  regret  to  inform  you  your  husband  reported 
wounded  and  missing 


'MISSING' 


BY 

MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 

Author  of  "Robert  Elsmere,"  "  Lady  Rose's  Daughter,' 
"  The  Mating  of  Lydia,"  etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOUR  BY 

C.  ALLAN  GILBERT 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY.  IMC. 


PART  I 


S375S7 


'MISSING' 


CHAPTER  I 

HALL  I  set  the  tea,  Miss?' 

Miss  Cookson  turned  from  the  window. 
*  Yes — bring  it  up — except  the  tea  of  course — 
they  ought  to  be  here  at  any  time.' 

*  And  Mrs.  Weston  wants  to  know  what  time 
supper's  to  be? ' 

The  fair-haired  girl  speaking  was  clearly  north- 
country.  She  pronounced  the  *  u  '  in  *  supper,'  as 
though  it  were  the  German  *  u  '  in  Suppe. 

Miss  Cookson  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'  Well,  they'll  settle  that.' 

The  tone  was  sharp  and  off-hand.  And  the  maid- 
servant, as  she  went  downstairs,  decided  for  the 
twentieth  time  that  afternoon,  that  she  didn't  like 
Miss  Cookson,  and  she  hoped  her  sister,  Mrs.  Sar- 
ratt,  would  be  nicer.  Miss  Cookson  had  been  pok- 
ing her  nose  into  everything  that  afternoon,  fiddling 
with  the  rooms  and  furniture,  and  interfering  with 
Mrs.  Weston.  As  if  Mrs.  Weston  didn't  know  what 
to  order  for  lodgers,  and  how  to  make  them  com- 
fortable! As  if  she  hadn't  had  dozens  of  brides 


2  'MISSING' 

and  bridegrooms  to  look  after  before  this ! — and  if 
she  hadn't  given  them  all  satisfaction,  would  they 
ever  have  sent  her  all  them  picture-postcards  which 
decorated  her  little  parlour  downstairs? 

All  the  same,  the  house-parlourmaid,  Milly  by 
name,  was  a  good  deal  excited  about  this  particular 
couple  who  were  now  expected.  For  Mrs.  Weston 
had  told  her  it  had  been  a  '  war  wedding,'  and  the 
bridegroom  was  going  off  to  the  front  in  a  week. 
Milly's  own  private  affairs — in  connection  with  a 
good-looking  fellow,  formerly  a  gardener  at  Bow- 
ness,  now  recently  enlisted  in  one  of  the  Border 
regiments — had  caused  her  to  take  a  special  interest 
in  the  information,  and  had  perhaps  led  her  to  put 
a  bunch  of  monthly  roses  on  Mrs.  Sarratt's  dressing- 
table.  Miss  Cookson  hadn't  bothered  herself  about 
flowers.  That  she  might  have  done! — instead  of 
fussing  over  things  that  didn't  concern  her — just  for 
the  sake  of  ordering  people  about. 

When  the  little  red-haired  maid  had  left  the  room, 
the  lady  she  disliked  returned  to  the  window,  and 
stood  there  absorbed  in  reflections  that  were  not  gay, 
to  judge  from  the  furrowed  brow  and  pinched  lips 
that  accompanied  them.  Bridget  Cookson  was  about 
thirty;  not  precisely  handsome,  but  at  the  same  time, 
not  ill-looking.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  striking, 
and  she  had  masses  of  dark  hair,  tightly  coiled  about 
her  head  as  though  its  owner  felt  it  troublesome  and 
in  the  way.  She  was  thin,  but  rather  largely  built, 
and  her  movements  were  quick  and  decided.  Her 


'MISSING'  3 

tweed  dress  was  fashionably  cut,  but  severely  without 
small  ornament  of  any  kind. 

She  looked  out  upon  a  beautiful  corner  of  English 
Lake-land.  The  house  in  which  she  stood  was  built 
on  the  side  of  a  little  river,  which,  as  she  saw  it,  came 
flashing  and  sparkling  out  of  a  lake  beyond,  lying  in 
broad  strips  of  light  and  shade  amid  green  surround- 
ing fells.  The  sun  was  slipping  low,  and  would  soon 
have  kindled  all  the  lake  into  a  white  fire,  in  which 
its  islands  would  have  almost  disappeared.  But,  for 
the  moment,  everything  was  plain : — the  sky,  full  of 
light,  and  filmy  grey  cloud,  the  fells  with  their  min- 
gling of  wood  and  purple  crag,  the  shallow  reach  of 
the  river  beyond  the  garden,  with  a  little  family  of 
wild  duck  floating  upon  it,  and  just  below  her  a  vivid 
splash  of  colour,  a  mass  of  rhododendron  in  bloom, 
setting  its  rose-pink  challenge  against  the  cool  greys 
and  greens  of  the  fell. 

But  Bridget  Cookson  was  not  admiring  the  view. 
It  was  not  new  to  her,  and  moreover  she  was  not  in 
love  with  Westmorland  at  all;  and  why  Nelly  should 
have  chosen  this  particular  spot  to  live  in,  while 
George  was  at  the  war,  she  did  not  understand.  She 
believed  there  was  some  sentimental  reason.  They 
had  first  seen  him  in  the  Lakes — just  before  the  war 
— when  they  two  girls  and  their  father  were  staying 
actually  in  this  very  lodging-house.  But  sentimental 
reasons  are  nothing. 

Well,  the  thing  was  done.  Nelly  was  married,  and 
in  another  week,  George  would  be  at  the  front.  Per- 


4  'MISSING7 

haps  in  a  fortnight's  time  she  would  be  a  widow. 
Such  things  have  happened  often.  *  And  then  what 
shall  I  do  with  her?  '  thought  the  sister,  irritably, — • 
recoiling  from  a  sudden  vision  of  Nelly  in  sorrow, 
which  seemed  to  threaten  her  own  life  with  even 
greater  dislocation  than  had  happened  to  it  already. 

*  I  must  have  my  time  to  myself! — freedom   for 
what  I  want ' — she  thought  to  herself,  impatiently, 

*  I  can't  be  always  looking  after  her.' 

Yet  of  course  the  fact  remained  that  there  was  no 
one  else  to  look  after  Nelly.  They  had  been  left 
alone  in  the  world  for  a  good  while  now.  Their 
father,  a  Manchester  cotton-broker  in  a  small  way, 
had  died  some  six  months  before  this  date,  leaving 
more  debts  than  fortune.  The  two  girls  had  found 
themselves  left  with  very  small  means,  and  had  lived, 
of  late,  mainly  in  lodgings — unfurnished  rooms — 
with  some  of  their  old  furniture  and  household 
things  round  them.  Their  father,  though  unsuccess- 
ful in  business,  had  been  ambitious  in  an  old- 
fashioned  way  for  his  children,  and  they  had  been 
brought  up  *  as  gentlefolks  ' — that  is  to  say  without 
any  trade  or  profession. 

But  their  poverty  had  pinched  them  disagreeably 
— especially  Bridget,  in  whom  it  had  produced  a  kind 
of  angry  resentment.  Their  education  had  not  been 
serious  enough,  in  these  days  of  competition,  to 
enable  them  to  make  anything  of  teaching  after  their 
Father's  death.  Nelly's  water-colour  drawing,  for 
instance,  though  it  was  a  passion  with  her,  was  quite 


'MISSING'  5 

untrained,  and  its  results  unmarketable.  Bridget 
had  taken  up  one  subject  after  another,  and  generally 
in  a  spirit  of  antagonism  to  her  surroundings,  who, 
according  to  her,  were  always  '  interfering '  with 
what  she  wanted  to  do, — with  her  serious  and  im- 
portant occupations.  But  these  occupations  always 
ended  by  coming  to  nothing;  so  that,  as  Bridget  was 
irritably  aware,  even  Nelly  had  ceased  to  be  as  much 
in  awe  of  them  as  she  had  once  been. 

But  the  elder  sister  had  more  solid  cause  than  this 
for  dissatisfaction  with  the  younger.  Nelly  had 
really  behaved  like  a  little  fool!  The  one  family 
asset  of  which  a  great  deal  might  have  been  made — 
should  have  been  made — was  Nelly's  prettiness.  She 
was  very  pretty — absurdly  pretty — and  had  been  a 
great  deal  run  after  in  Manchester  already.  There 
had  been  actually  two  proposals  from  elderly  men 
with  money,  who  were  unaware  of  the  child's  en- 
gagement, during  the  past  three  months ;  and  though 
these  particular  suitors  were  perhaps  unattractive, 
yet  a  little  time  and  patience,  and  the  right  man 
would  have  come  along,  both  acceptable  in  himself, 
and  sufficiently  supplied  with  money  to  make  every- 
thing easy  for  everybody. 

But  Nelly  had  just  wilfully  and  stubbornly  fallen 
in  love  with  this  young  man — and  wilfully  and  stub- 
bornly married  him.  It  was  unlike  her  to  be  stubborn 
about  anything.  But  in  this  there  had  been  no  mov- 
ing her.  And  now  there  was  nothing  before  either 
of  them  but  the  same  shabbiness  and  penury  as  be- 


6  'MISSING' 

fore.  What  if  George  had  two  hundred  and  fifty 
a  year  of  his  own,  besides  his  pay? — a  fact  that 
Nelly  was  always  triumphantly  brandishing  in  her 
sister's  eyes. 

No  doubt  it  was  more  than  most  young  subalterns 
had — much  more.  But  what  was  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year?  Nelly  would  want  every  penny  of  it 
for  herself — and  her  child — or  children.  For  of 
course  there  would  be  a  child — 

Bridget  Cookson  fell  into  profound  depths  of 
thought,  emerging  from  them,  now  as  often  before, 
with  the  sore  realisation  of  how  much  Nelly  might 
have  done  with  her  *  one  talent,'  both  for  herself  and 
her  sister,  and  had  not  done. 

The  sun  dropped  lower;  one  side  of  the  lake  was 
now  in  shadow,  and  from  the  green  shore  beneath  the 
woods  and  rocks,  the  reflections  of  tree  and  crag  and 
grassy  slope  were  dropping  down  and  down,  un- 
earthly clear  and  far,  to  that  inverted  heaven  in 
the  *  steady  bosom '  of  the  water.  A  little  breeze 
came  wandering,  bringing  delicious  scents  of  grass 
and  moss,  and  in  the  lake  the  fish  were  rising. 

Miss  Cookson  moved  away  from  the  window. 
How  late  they  were !  She  would  hardly  get  home  in 
time  for  her  own  supper.  They  would  probably  ask 
her  to  stay  and  sup  with  them.  But  she  did  not 
intend  to  stay.  Honeymooners  were  much  better  left 
to  themselves.  Nelly  would  be  a  dreadfully  senti- 
mental bride;  and  then  dreadfully  upset  when  George 
went  away.  She  had  asked  her  sister  to  join  them  in 


'MISSING'  7, 

the  Lakes,  and  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  they 
would  resume  living  together  after  George's  depar- 
ture. But  Bridget  had  fixed  her  own  lodgings,  for 
the  present,  a  mile  away,  and  did  not  mean  to  see 
much  of  her  sister  till  the  bridegroom  had  gone. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  motor-car  on  the  road, 
which  ran  along  one  side  of  the  garden,  divided  from 
it  by  a  high  wall.  It  could  hardly  be  they;  for  they 
were  coming  frugally  by  the  coach.  But  Miss  Cook- 
son  went  across  to  a  side  window  looking  on  the 
road  to  investigate. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  opposite  stood  a  luxurious 
car,  waiting  evidently  for  the  party  which  was  now 
descending  the  hill  towards  it.  Bridget  had  a  clear 
view  of  them,  herself  unseen  behind  Mrs.  Weston's 
muslin  blinds.  A  girl  was  in  front,  with  a  young  man 
in  khaki,  a  convalescent  officer,  to  judge  from  his 
frail  look  and  hollow  eyes.  The  girl  was  exactly 
like  the  fashion-plate  in  the  morning's  paper.  She 
wore  a  very  short  skirt  and  Zouave  jacket  in  grey 
cloth,  high-heeled  grey  boots,  with  black  tips  and 
gaiters,  a  preposterous  little  hat  perched  on  one  side 
of  a  broad  white  forehead,  across  which  the  hair  was 
parted  like  a  boy's,  and  an  ostrich  plume  on  the  top 
of  the  hat,  which  nodded  and  fluttered  so  extrava- 
gantly that  the  face  beneath  almost  escaped  the  spec- 
tator's notice.  Yet  it  was  on  the  whole  a  handsome 
face,  audacious,  like  its  owner's  costume,  and  with 
evident  signs — for  Bridget  Cookson's  sharp  eyes — 
of  slight  make-up. 


8  'MISSING' 

Miss  Cookson  knew  who  she  was.  She  had  seen 
her  in  the  neighbouring  town  that  morning,  and  had 
heard  much  gossip  about  her.  She  was  Miss  Farrell, 
of  Carton  Hall,  and  that  gentleman  coming  down  the 
hill  more  slowly  behind  her  was  no  doubt  her  brother 
Sir  William. 

Lame?  That  of  course  was  the  reason  why  he 
was  not  in  the  army.  It  was  not  very  conspicuous, 
but  still  quite  definite.  A  stiff  knee,  Miss  Cookson 
supposed — an  accident  perhaps — some  time  ago. 
Lucky  for  him! — on  any  reasonable  view.  Bridget 
Cookson  thought  the  war  '  odious,'  and  gave  no  more 
attention  to  it  -than  she  could  help.  It  had  lasted 
now  nearly  a  year,  and  she  was  heartily  sick  of  it. 
It  filled  the  papers  with  monotonous  news  which 
tired  her  attention — which  she  did  not  really  try  to 
understand.  Now  she  supposed  she  would  have  to 
understand  it.  For  George,  her  new  brother-in-law, 
was  sure  to  talk  a  terrible  amount  of  shop. 

Sir  William  was  very  tall  certainly,  and  good- 
looking.  He  had  a  short  pointed  beard,  a  ruddy, 
sunburnt  complexion,  blue  eyes  and  broad  shoulders 
— the  common  points  of  the  well-born  and  landown- 
ing Englishman.  Bridget  looked  at  him  with  a  mix- 
ture of  respect  and  hostility.  To  be  rich  was  to  be  so 
far  interesting;  still  all  such  persons,  belonging  to 
a  world  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  were  in  her  eyes 
'swells,'  and  gave  themselves  airs;  a  procedure  on 
their  part,  which  would  be  stopped  when  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  were  powerful  enough  to  put  them 


'MISSING'  9 

in  their  place.  It  was  said,  however,  that  this  par- 
ticular man  was  rather  a  remarkable  specimen  of  his 
kind — didn't  hunt — didn't  preserve — had  trained  as 
an  artist,  and  even  exhibited.  The  shopwoman  in 
B from  whom  Miss  Cookson  derived  her  in- 
formation about  the  Farrells,  had  described  Sir  Wil- 
liam as  '  queer ' — said  everybody  knew  he  was  '  queer.' 
Nobody  could  get  him  to  do  any  county  work.  He 
hated  Committees,  and  never  went  near  them.  It 
was  said  he  had  been  in  love  and  the  lady  had  died. 
'  But  if  we  all  turned  lazy  for  that  kind  of  thing!  ' — * 
said  the  little  shopwoman,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
Still  the  Farrells  were  not  unpopular.  Sir  William 
had  a  pleasant  slow  way  of  talking,  especially  to  the 
small  folk;  and  he  had  just  done  something  very 
generous  in  giving  up  his  house — the  whole  of  his 
house — somewhere  Cockermouth  way,  to  the  War 
Office,  as  a  hospital.  As  for  his  sister,  she  seemed 
to  like  driving  convalescent  officers  about,  and  throw- 
ing away  money  on  her  clothes.  There  was  no  sign 
of  '  war  economy '  about  Miss  Farrell. 

Here,  however,  the  shopwoman's  stream  of  gos- 
sip was  arrested  by  the  arrival  of  a  new  customer. 
Bridget  was  not  sorry.  She  had  not  been  at  all 
interested  in  the  Farrells'  idiosyncrasies;  and  she 
only  watched  their  preparations  for  departure  now, 
for  lack  of  something  to  do.  The  chauffeur  was 
waiting  beside  the  car,  and  Miss  Farrell  got  in  first, 
taking  the  front  seat.  Then  Sir  William,  who  had 
been  loitering  on  the  hill,  hurried  down  to  give  a 


io  'MISSING' 

helping  hand  to  the  young  officer,  who  was  evidently 
only  in  the  early  stages  of  convalescence.  After 
settling  his  guest  comfortably,  he  turned  to  speak  to 
his  chauffeur,  apparently  about  their  road  home,  as 
he  took  a  map  out  of  his  pocket. 

At  this  moment,  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the 
rattle  of  a  coach  were  heard.  Round  the  corner, 
swung  the  Windermere  evening  coach  in  fine  style, 
and  drew  up  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Weston's  lodgings, 
a  little  ahead  of  the  car. 

*  There  they  are ! '  said  Miss  Cookson,  excited  in 
spite  of  herself.    '  Well,  I  needn't  go  down.    George 
will  bring  in  the  luggage.' 

A  young  man  and  a  young  lady  got  up  from  their 
seats.  A  ladder  was  brought  for  the  lady  to  descend. 
But  just  as  she  was  about  to  step  on  it,  a  fidgeting 
horse  in  front  made  a  movement,  the  ladder  slipped, 
and  the  lady  was  only  just  in  time  to  withdraw  her 
foot  and  save  herself. 

Sir  William  Farrell,  who  had  seen  the  little  inci- 
dent, ran  forward,  while  the  man  who  had  been 
placing  the  ladder  went  to  the  horse,  which  was 
capering  and  trying  to  rear  in  his  eagerness  to  be  off. 

Sir  William  raised  the  ladder,  and  set  it  firmly 
against  the  coach. 

'  I  think  you  might  risk  it  now,'  he  said,  raising  his 
eyes  pleasantly  to  the  young  person  above  him. 

*  Thank  you,'   said  a   shy  voice.     Mrs.   Sarratt 
turned  round  and  descended.     Meanwhile  the  man 
holding  the  ladder  saw  an  officer  in  khaki  standing 


'MISSING'  ii 

on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  heard  him  address  a 
word  of  laughing  encouragement  to  the  lady.  And 
no  sooner  had  her  feet  touched  the  ground  than  he 
was  at  her  side  in  a  trice. 

4  Thank  you,  Sir !  '  he  said,  saluting.  '  My  wife 
was  very  nearly  thrown  off.  That  horse  has  been 
giving  trouble  all  the  way.' 

*  Must  be  content  with  what  you  can  get,  in  war- 
time !  '  said  the  other  smiling,  as  he  raised  his  hat  to 
the  young  woman  he  had  befriended,  whom  he  now 
saw  plainly.  '  And  there  are  so  few  visitors  at  pres- 
ent in  these  parts  that  what  horses  there  are  don't 
get  enough  to  do.' 

The  face  turned  upon  him  was  so  exquisite  in  line 
and  colour  that  Sir  William,  suddenly  struck,  instead 
of  retreating  to  his  car,  lingered  while  the  soldier 
husband — a  lieutenant,  to  judge  from  the  stripes  on 
his  cuff, — collected  a  rather  large  amount  of  luggage 
from  the  top  of  the  coach. 

'  You  must  have  had  a  lovely  drive  along  Winder- 
mere,'  said  Sir  William  politely.  *  Let  me  carry  that 
bag  for  you.  You're  stopping  here?  ' 

'  Yes — '  said  Mrs.  Sarratt,  distractedly,  watching 
to  see  that  the  luggage  was  all  right.  *  Oh,  George, 
do  take  care  of  that  parcel ! ' 

1  All  right.' 

But  she  had  spoken  too  late.  As  her  husband, 
having  handed  over  two  suit  cases  to  Mrs.  Weston's 
fourteen-year  old  boy,  came  towards  her  with  a  large 
brown  paper  parcel,  the  string  of  it  slipped,  Mrs. 


12  'MISSING' 

Sarratt  gave  a  little  cry,  and  but  for  her  prompt  rush 
to  his  assistance,  its  contents  would  have  descended 
into  the  road.  But  through  a  gap  in  the  paper  vari- 
ous tin  and  china  objects  were  disclosed. 

*  That's  your  "  cooker,"  Nelly,'  said  her  husband 
laughing.    *  I  told  you  it  would  bust  the  show ! ' 

But  her  tiny,  deft  fingers  rapidly  repaired  the 
damage,  and  re-tied  the  string  while  he  assisted  her. 
The  coach  drove  off,  and  Sir  William  patiently  held 
the  bag.  Then  she  insisted  on  carrying  the  parcel 
herself,  and  the  lieutenant  relieved  Sir  William. 

*  Awfully  obliged  to  you  I '   he   said  gratefully. 
1  Good  evening !    We're  stopping  here  for  a  bit.'    He 
pointed  to  the  open  door  of  the  lodging-house,  where 
Mrs.  Weston  and  the  boy  were  grappling  with  the 
luggage. 

'  May  I  ask — '  Sir  William's  smile  as  he  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  expressed  that  loosening  of 
conventions  in  which  we  have  all  lived  since  the  war 
— *  Are  you  home  on  leave,  or — ' 

1 1  came  home  to  be  married,'  said  the  young 
soldier,  flushing  slightly,  while  his  eyes  crossed  those 
of  the  young  girl  beside  him.  *  I've  got  a  week 
more.' 

'  You've  been  out  some  time  ?  ' 

'  Since  last  November.  I  got  a  scratch  in  the 
Ypres  fight  in  April — oh,  nothing — a  small  flesh 
wound — but  they  gave  me  a  month's  leave,  and  my 
medical  board  has  only  just  passed  me.' 


'MISSING'  13 

'  Lanchesters  ? '  said  Sir  William,  looking  at  his 
cap.  The  other  nodded  pleasantly. 

*  Well,  I  am  sure  I  hope  you'll  have  good  weather 
here,'  said  Sir  William,  stepping  back,  and  once  more 
raising  his  hat  to  the  bride.     *  And — if  there  was 
anything  I  could  do  to  help  your  stay — ' 

*  Oh,  thank  you,  Sir,  but — ' 

The  pair  smiled  again  at  each  other.  Sir  WTilliam 
understood,  and  smiled  too.  A  more  engaging  couple 
he  thought  he  had  never  seen.  The  young  man  was 
not  exactly  handsome,  but  he  had  a  pair  of  charming 
hazel  eyes,  a  good-tempered  mouth,  and  a  really 
fine  brow.  He  was  tall  too,  and  well  proportioned, 
and  looked  the  pick  of  physical  fitness.  *  Just  the 
kind  of  splendid  stuff  we  are  sending  out  by  the  ship- 
load,' thought  the  elder  man,  with  a  pang  of  envy — 
1  And  the  girl's  lovely ! ' 

She  was  at  that  moment  bowing  to  him,  as  she 
followed  her  husband  across  the  road.  A  thought 
occurred  to  Sir  William,  and  he  pursued  her. 

'  I  wonder — '  he  said  diffidently — '  if  you  care  for 
boating — if  you  would  like  to  boat  on  the  lake — ' 

'  Oh,  but  it  isn't  allowed ! '  She  turned  on  him  a 
pair  of  astonished  eyes. 

1  Not  in  general.  Ah,  I  see  you  know  these  parts 
already.  But  I  happen  to  know  the  owner  of  the 
boathouse.  Shall  I  get  you  leave?  ' 

*  Oh,  that  would  be  delightful ! '  she  said,  her  face 
kindling  with  a  child's  joyousness.    *  That  is  kind  of 


i4  'MISSING' 

you!  Our  name  is  Sarratt — my  husband  is  Lieu- 
tenant Sarratt.' 

— 'Of  the  zist  Lanchesters?  All  right — I'll  see 
to  it!' 

And  he  ran  back  to  his  car,  while  the  young  people 
disappeared  into  the  little  entrance  hall  of  the 
lodging-house,  and  the  door  shut  upon  them. 

Miss  Farrell  received  her  brother  with  gibes. 
Trust  William  for  finding  out  a  beauty !  Who  were 
they? 

Farrell  handed  on  his  information  as  the  car  sped 
along  the  Keswick  road. 

'  Going  back  in  a  week,  is  he?  '  said  the  convales- 
cent officer  beside  him.  Then,  bitterly — '  lucky 
dog!' 

Farrell  looked  at  the  speaker  kindly. 

*  What — with  a  wife  to  leave  ?  ' 

The  boy,  for  he  was  little  more,  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  At  that  moment  he  knew  no  passion 
but  the  passion  for  the  regiment  and  his  men,  to 
whom  he  couldn't  get  back,  because  his  '  beastly 
constitution '  wouldn't  let  him  recover  as  quickly  as 
otjier  men  did.  What  did  women  matter? — when 
the  *  push '  might  be  on,  any  day. 

Cicely  Farrell  continued  to  chaff  her  brother,  who 
took  it  placidly — fortified  by  a  big  cigar. 

*  And  if  she'd  been  plain,  Willy,  you'd  never  have 
so  much  as  known  she  was  there !    Did  you  tell  her 
you  haunted  these  parts?' 

He  shook  his  head. 


'MISSING'  15. 

Meanwhile  the  bride  and  bridegroom  had  been 
met  on  the  lodging-house  stairs  by  the  bride's  sister, 
who  allowed  herself  to  be  kissed  by  the  bridegroom, 
and  hugged  by  the  bride.  Her  lack  of  effusion,- 
however,  made  little  impression  on  the  newcomers. 
They  were  in  that  state  of  happiness  which  trans- 
figures everything  round  it;  they  were  delighted  with 
the  smallest  things;  with  the  little  lodging-house 
sitting  room,  its  windows  open  to  the  lake  and  river; 
with  its  muslin  curtains,  very  clean  and  white,  its 
cluster-rose  too,  just  outside  the  window;  with  Mrs. 
Weston,  who  in  her  friendly  flurry  had  greeted  the 
bride  as  '  Miss  Nelly,'  and  was  bustling  to  get  the 
tea;  even,  indeed,  with  Bridget  Cookson's  few  casual 
attentions  to  them.  Mrs.  Sarratt  thought  it  *  dear ' 
of  Bridget  to  have  come  to  meet  them,  and  ordered 
tea  for  them,  and  put  those  delicious  roses  in  her 
room — 

'  I  didn't ! '  said  Bridget,  drily.  *  That  was  Milly. 
It  didn't  occur  to  me.' 

The  bride  looked  a  little  checked.  But  then  the 
tea  came  in,  a  real  Westmorland  meal,  with  its 
toasted  bun,  its  jam,  and  its  'twist'  of  new  bread; 
and  Nelly  Sarratt  forgot  everything  but  the  pleasure 
of  making  her  husband  eat,  of  filling  his  cup  for  him, 
of  looking  sometimes  through  the  window  at  that 
shining  lake,  beside  which  she  and  George  would 
soon  be  roaming — for  six  long  days.  Yes,  and  nights 
too.  For  there  was  a  moon  rising,  which  would  be 


16  'MISSING' 

at  the  full  in  two  or  three  days.  Imagination  flew 
forward,  as  she  leant  dreamily  back  in  her  chair 
when  the  meal  was  over,  her  eyes  on  the  landscape. 
They  two  alone — on  that  warm  summer  lake — 
drifting  in  the  moonlight — heart  against  heart,  cheek 
against  cheek.  A  shiver  ran  through  her,  which  was 
partly  passion,  partly  a  dull  fear.  But  she  banished 
fear.  Nothing — nothing  should  spoil  their  week 
together. 

'  Darling! '  said  her  husband,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing her — '  You're  not  very  tired?  '  He  slipped  his 
hand  round  hers,  and  her  fingers  rested  in  his  clasp, 
delighted  to  feel  themselves  so  small,  and  his  so 
strong.  He  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  low  voice  that 
was  hers  alone.  She  was  jealous  lest  Bridget  should 
have  overheard  it.  But  Bridget  was  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  How  foolish  it  had  been  of  her — just 
because  she  was  so  happy,  and  wanted  to  be  nice  to 
everybody ! — to  have  asked  Bridget  to  stay  with 
them !  She  was  always  doing  silly  things  like  that — 
impulsive  things.  But  now  she  was  married.  She 
must  think  more.  It  was  really  very  considerate  of 
Bridget  to  have  got  them  all  out  of  a  difficulty  and 
to  have  settled  herself  a  mile  away  from  them; 
though  at  first  it  had  seemed  rather  unkind.  Now 
they  could  see  her  always  sometime  in  the  day,  but 
not  so  as  to  interfere.  She  was  afraid  Bridget  and 
George  would  never  really  get  on,  though  she — 
Nelly — wanted  to  forget  all  the  unpleasantness  there 
had  been, — to  forget  everything — everything  but 


'MISSING'  17 

George.    The  fortnight's  honeymoon  lay  like  a  haze 
of  sunlight  between  her  and  the  past. 

But  Bridget  had  noticed  the  voice  and  the  clasped 
hands, — with  irritation.  Really,  after  a  fortnight, 
they  might  have  done  with  that  kind  of  demonstra- 
tiveness.  All  the  same,  Nelly  was  quite  extraordi- 
narily pretty — prettier  than  ever.  While  the  sister 
was  slowly  putting  on  her  hat  before  the  only  mirror 
the  sitting-room  possessed,  she  was  keenly  conscious 
of  the  two  figures  near  the  window,  of  the  man  in 
khaki  sitting  on  the  arm  of  Nelly's  chair,  holding 
her  hand,  and  looking  down  upon  her,  of  Nelly's 
flushed  cheek  and  bending  head.  What  a  baby  she 
looked! — scarcely  seventeen.  Yet  she  was  really 
twenty-one — old  enough,  by  a  long  way,  to  have  done 
better  for  herself  than  this !  Oh,  George,  in  himself, 
was  well  enough.  If  he  came  back  from  the  war, 
his  new-made  sister-in-law  supposed  she  would  get 
used  to  him  in  time.  Bridget  however  did  not  find 
it  easy  to  get  on  with  men,  especially  young  men,  of 
whom  she  knew  very  few.  For  eight  or  ten  years 
now,  she  had  looked  upon  them  chiefly  as  awkward 
and  inconvenient  facts  in  women's  lives.  Before 
that  time,  she  could  remember  a  few  silly  feelings  on 
her  own  part,  especially  with  regard  to  a  young  clerk 
of  her  father's,  who  had  made  love  to  her  up  to  the 
very  day  when  he  shamefacedly  told  her  that  he  was 
already  engaged,  and  would  soon  be  married.  That 
event  had  been  a  shock  to  her,  and  had  made  her 
cautious  and  suspicious  towards  men  ever  since.  Her 


i8  'MISSING' 

life  was  now  full  of  quite  other  interests — incoherent 
and  changeable,  but  strong  while  they  lasted.  Nelly's 
state  of  bliss  awoke  no  answering  sympathy  in  her. 

'  Well,  good-bye,  Nelly,'  she  said,  when  she  had 
put  on  her  things — advancing  towards  them,  while 
the  lieutenant  rose  to  his  feet.  *  I  expect  Mrs. 
Weston  will  make  you  comfortable.  I  ordered  in 
all  the  things  for  to-morrow.' 

'  Everything's  charming! '  said  Nelly,  as  she  put 
her  arms  round  her  sister.  '  It  was  awfully  good  of 
you  to  see  to  it  all.  Will  you  come  over  to  lunch 
to-morrow?  We  might  take  you  somewhere.' 

*  Oh,  don't  bother  about  me !  You  won't  want 
me.  I'll  look  in  some  time.  I've  got  a  lot  of  work 
to  do.' 

Nelly  withdrew  her  arms.  George  Sarratt  sur- 
veyed his  sister-in-law  with  curiosity. 

'Work?'  he  repeated,  with  his  pleasant,  rather 
puzzled  smile. 

'  What  are  you  doing  now,  Bridget?  '  said  Nelly, 
softly,  stroking  the  sleeve  of  her  sister's  jacket,  but 
really  conscious  only  of  the  man  beside  her. 

1  Reading  some  proof-sheets  for  a  friend,'  was  the 
rather  short  reply,  as  Bridget  released  herself. 

'Something  dreadfully  difficult?'  laughed  Nelly. 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  difficult,'  said 
Bridget  ungraciously,  looking  for  her  gloves.  '  It's 
psychology — that's  all.  Lucy  Fenn's  bringing  out 
another  volume  of  essays.' 

'  It  sounds  awful ! '  said  George  Sarratt,  laughing. 


'MISSING'  19 

1 1  wish  I  knew  what  psychology  was  about.  But 
can't  you  take  a  holiday? — just  this  week? ' 

He  looked  at  her  rather  gravely.  But  Bridget 
shook  her  head,  and  again  said  good-bye.  George 
Sarratt  took  her  downstairs,  and  saw  her  off  on  her 
bicycle.  Then  he  returned  smiling,  to  his  wife. 

4 1  say,  Bridget  makes  me  feel  a  dunce  I  Is  she 
really  such  a  learned  party?' 

Nelly's  dark  eyes  danced  a  little.  '  I  suppose  she 
is — but  she  doesn't  stick  to  anything.  It's  always 
something  different.  A  few  months  ago,  it  was 
geology;  and  we  used  to  go  out  for  walks  with  a 
hammer  and  a  bag.  Last  year  it  was  f^-ology! 
Our  poor  clergyman,  Mr.  Richardson,  was  no  match 
for  Bridget  at  all.  She  could  always  bowl  him 
over.' 

1  Somehow  all  the  "  ologies  "  seem  very  far  away 
— don't  they?'  murmured  Sarratt,  after  they  had 
laughed  together.  They  were  standing  at  the  win- 
dow again,  his  arm  close  round  her,  her  small  dark 
head  pressed  against  him.  There  was  ecstasy  in  their 
nearness  to  each  other — in  the  silver  beauty  of  the 
lake — in  the  soft  coming  of  the  June  evening;  and 
in  that  stern  fact  itself  that  in  one  short  week,  he 
would  have  left  her,  would  be  facing  death  or  muti- 
lation, day  after  day,  in  the  trenches  on  the  Ypres 
salient.  While  he  held  her,  all  sorts  of  images 
flitted  through  his  mind — of  which  he  would  not 
have  told  her  for  the  world — horrible  facts  of  bloody 
war.  In  eight  months  he  had  seen  plenty  of  them. 


20  'MISSING' 

The  signs  of  them  were  graven  on  his  young  face, 
on  his  eyes,  round  which  a  slight  permanent  frown, 
as  of  perplexity,  seemed  to  have  settled,  and  on  his 
mouth  which  was  no  longer  naif  and  boyish,  but 
would  always  drop  with  repose  into  a  hard  com- 
pressed line. 

Nelly  looked  up. 

'  Everything's  far  away ' — she  whispered — '  but 
this — and  you ! '  He  kissed  her  upturned  lips — and 
there  was  silence. 

Then  a  robin  singing  outside  in  the  evening  hush, 
sent  a  message  to  them.  Nelly  with  an  effort  drew 
herself  away. 

'  Shan't  we  go  out?  We'll  tell  Mrs.  Weston  to 
put  supper  on  the  table,  and  we  can  come  in  when 
we  like.  But  I'll  just  unpack  a  little  first — in  our 
room.' 

She  disappeared  through  a  door  at  the  end  of 
the  sitting-room.  Her  last  words — softly  spoken — • 
produced  a  kind  of  shock  of  joy  in  Sarratt.  He  sat 
motionless,  hearing  the  echo  of  them,  till  she  reap- 
peared. When  she  came  back,  she  had  taken  off  her 
serge  travelling  dress  and  was  wearing  a  little  gown 
of  some  white  cotton  stuff,  with  a  blue  cloak,  the 
evening  having  turned  chilly,  and  a  hat  with  a  blue 
ribbon.  In  this  garb  she  was  a  vision  of  innocent 
beauty;  wherein  refinement  and  a  touch  of  strange- 
ness combined  with  the  dark  brilliance  of  eyes  and 
hair,  with  the  pale,  slightly  sunburnt  skin,  the  small 
features  and  tiny  throat,  to  rivet  the  spectator.  And 


'MISSING'  21 

she  probably  knew  it,  for  she  flushed  slightly  under 
her  husband's  eyes. 

*  Oh,  what  a  paradise ! '  she  said,  under  her  breath, 
pointing  to  the  scene  beyond  the  window.  Then — 
lifting  appealing  hands  to  him — *  Take  me  there ! ' 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  newly-married  pair  crossed  a  wooden 
bridge  over  the  stream  from  the  Lake,  and 
found  themselves  on  its  further  shore,  a  shore 
as  untouched  and  unspoilt  now  as  when  Wordsworth 
knew  it,  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  sun  had  only 
just  vanished  out  of  sight  behind  the  Grasmere  fells, 
and  the  long  Westmorland  after-glow  would  linger 
for  nearly  a  couple  of  hours  yet.  After  much  rain 
the  skies  were  clear,  and  all  the  omens  fair.  But  the 
rain  had  left  its  laughing  message  behind;  in  the  full 
river,  in  the  streams  leaping  down  the  fells,  in  the 
freshness  of  every  living  thing— the  new-leafed  trees, 
the  grass  with  its  flowers,  the  rushes  spreading  their 
light  armies  through  the  flooded  margins  of  the  lake, 
and  bending  to  the  light  wind,  which  had  just,  as 
though  in  mischief,  blotted  out  the  dream-world  in 
the  water,  and  set  it  rippling  eastwards  in  one  sheet 
of  living  silver,  broken  only  by  a  cloud-shadow  at  its 
further  end.  Fragrance  was  everywhere — from  the 
trees,  the  young  fern,  the  grass ;  and  from  the  shining 
west,  the  shadowed  fells,  the  brilliant  water,  there 
breathed  a  voice  of  triumphant  beauty,  of  uncon- 
quered  peace,  which  presently  affected  George  Sar- 
ratt  strangely. 

They  had  just  passed  through  a  little  wood;  and 


'MISSING'  23 

in  its  friendly  gloom,  he  had  put  his  arm  round  his 
wife  so  that  they  had  lingered  a  little,  loth  to  leave 
its  shelter.  But  now  they  had  emerged  again  upon 
the  radiance  of  the  fell-side,  and  he  had  found  a 
stone  for  Nelly  to  rest  on. 

4  That  those  places  in  France,  and  that  sky — 
should  be  in  the  same  world ! '  he  said,  under  his 
breath,  pointing  to  the  glow  on  the  eastern  fells,  as 
he  threw  himself  down  on  the  turf  beside  her. 

Her  face  flushed  with  exercise  and  happiness  sud- 
denly darkened. 

'  Don't — don't  talk  of  them  to-night !  ' — she  said 
passionately — '  not  to-night — just  to-night,  George ! ' 

And  she  stooped  impetuously  to  lay  her  hand  on 
his  lips.  He  kissed  the  hand,  held  it,  and  remained 
silent,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  lake.  On  that  day 
week  he  would  probably  just  have  rejoined  his  regi- 
ment. It  was  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Bailleul.  Hot  work,  he  heard,  was  expected.  There 
was  still  a  scandalous  shortage  of  ammunition — and 
if  there  was  really  to  be  a  '  push,'  the  losses  would  be 
appalling.  Man  after  man  that  he  knew  had  been 
killed  within  a  week — two  or  three  days — twenty- 
four  hours  even! — of  rejoining.  Supposing  that 
within  a  fortnight  Nelly  sat  here,  looking  at  this 
lake,  with  the  War  Office  telegram  in  her  hand — 
1  Deeply  regret  to  inform  you,  etc.'  This  was  not  a 
subject  on  which  he  had  ever  allowed  himself  to 
dwell,  more  than  in  his  changed  circumstances  he  was 


24  'MISSING' 

bound  to  dwell.  Every  soldier,  normally,  expects 
to  get  through.  But  of  course  he  had  done  every- 
thing that  wasjnecessary  for  Nelly!  His  will  was  in 
the  proper  hands;  and  the  night  before  their  wedding 
he  had  written  a  letter  to  her,  to  be  given  her  if  he 
fell.  Otherwise  he  had  taken  little  account  of  pos- 
sible death;  nor  had  it  cost  him  any  trouble  to  banish 
the  thought  of  it. 

But  the  beauty  of  the  evening — of  this  old  earth, 
which  takes  no  account  of  the  perishing  of  men — and 
Nelly's  warm  life  beside  him,  hanging  upon  his,  per- 
haps already  containing  within  it  the  mysterious 
promise  of  another  life,  had  suddenly  brought  upon 
him  a  tremor  of  soul — an  inward  shudder.  Did  he 
really  believe  in  existence  after  death — in  a  meeting 
again,  in  some  dim  other  scene,  if  they  were  violently 
parted  now?  He  had  been  confirmed  while  at  school. 
His  parents  were  Church  people  of  a  rather  languid 
type,  and  it  seemed  the  natural  thing  to  do.  Since 
then  he  had  occasionally  taken  the  Communion, 
largely  to  please  an  elder  school-friend,  who  was 
ardently  devout,  and  was  now  a  Chaplain  on  the 
Western  front.  But  what  did  it  really  mean  to  him? 
— what  would  it  mean  to  her — if  she  were  left  alone  ? 
Images  passed  through  his  mind — the  sights  of  the 
trenches — shattered  and  dying  bodies.  What  was 
the  soul? — had  it  really  an  independent  life?  Some- 
thing there  was  in  men — quite  rough  and  common 
men — something  revealed  by  war  and  the  sufferings 
of  war — so  splendid,  so  infinitely  beyond  anything  he 


'MISSING'  25 

had  ever  dreamed  of  in  ordinary  life,  that  to  think  of 
it  roused  in  him  a  passion  of  hidden  feeling — perhaps 
adoration — but  vague  and  speechless — adoration  of 
he  knew  not  what.  He  did  not  speak  easily  of  his 
feeling,  even  to  his  young  wife,  to  whom  marriage 
had  so  closely,  so  ineffably  bound  him.  But  as  he  lay 
on  the  grass  looking  up  at  her — smiling — obeying 
her  command  of  silence,  his  thoughts  ranged  irre- 
pressibly.  Supposing  he  fell,  and  she  lived  on — 
years  and  years — to  be  an  old  woman?  Old !  Nelly? 
Impossible !  He  put  his  hand  gently  on  the  slender 
foot,  and  felt  the  pulsing  life  in  it.  *  Dearest !  '  she 
murmured  at  his  touch,  and  their  eyes  met  tenderly. 

'  I  should  be  content — '  he  thought — *  if  we  could 
just  live  this  life  out !  I  don't  believe  I  should  want 
another  life.  But  to  go — and  leave  her;  to  go — just 
at  the  beginning — before  one  knows  anything — be- 
fore one  has  finished  anything — ' 

And  again  his  eyes  wandered  from  her  to  the 
suffusion  of  light  and  colour  on  the  lake.  *  How 
could  anyone  ever  want  anything  better  than  this 
earth — this  life — at  its  best — if  only  one  were  al- 
lowed a  full  and  normal  share  of  it ! '  And  he 
thought  again,  almost  with  a  leap  of  exasperation,  of 
those  dead  and  mangled  men — out  there — in  France. 
Who  was  responsible — God? — or  man?  But  man's 
will  is — must  be — something  dependent — something 
included  in  God's  will.  If  God  really  existed,  and  if 
He  willed  war,  and  sudden  death — then  there  must 
be  another  life.  Or  else  the  power  that  devised  the 


26  'MISSING' 

world  was  not  a  good,  but  an  evil — at  best,  a  blind 
one. 

But  while  his  young  brain  was  racing  through 
the  old  puzzles  in  the  old  ways,  Nelly  was  thinking 
of  something  quite  different.  Her  delicate  small 
face  kept  breaking  into  little  smiles  with  pensive  in- 
tervals— till  at  last  she  broke  out — 

'  Do  you  remember  how  I  caught  you — turning 
back  to  look  after  us — just  here — just  about  here? 
You  had  passed  that  thorn  tree — ' 

He  came  back  to  love-making  with  delight. 

*  "  Caught  me !  "  I  like  that!  As  if  you  weren't 
looking  back  too !  How  else  did  you  know  anything 
about  me  ? ' 

He  had  taken  his  seat  beside  her  on  the  rock,  and 
her  curly  black  head  was  nestling  against  his  shoul- 
der. There  was  no  one  on  mountain  path,  no  one  on 
the  lake.  Occasionally  from  the  main  road  on  the 
opposite  shore  there  was  a  passing  sound  of  wheels. 
Otherwise  the  world  was  theirs — its  abysses  of 
shadow,  its  '  majesties  of  light* 

She  laughed  joyously,  not  attempting  to  contradict 
him.  It  was  on  this  very  path,  just  two  months 
before  the  war,  that  they  had  first  seen  each  other. 
She  with  her  father  and  Bridget  were  staying  at 
Mrs.  Weston's  lodgings,  because  she,  Nelly,  had  had 
influenza,  and  the  doctor  had  sent  her  away  for  a 
change.  They  knew  the  Lakes  well  already,  as  is 
the  way  of  Manchester  folk.  Their  father,  a  hard- 
worked,  and  often  melancholy  man,  had  delighted  in 


'MISSING'  27 

them,  summer  and  winter,  and  his  two  girls  had 
trudged  about  the  fells  with  him  year  after  year,  and 
wanted  nothing  different  or  better.  At  least,  Nelly 
had  always  been  content.  Bridget  had  grumbled 
often,  and  proposed  Blackpool,  or  Llandudno,  or 
Eastbourne  for  a  change.  But  their  father  did  not 
like  '  crowds.'  They  came  to  the  Lakes  always  be- 
fore or  after  the  regular  season.  Mr.  Cookson 
hated  the  concourse  of  motorists  in  August,  and 
never  would  use  one  himself.  Not  even  when  they 
went  from  Ambleside  to  Keswick.  They  must  always 
walk,  or  go  by  the  horse-coach. 

Nelly  presently  looked  up,  and  gave  a  little  pull 
to  the  corner  of  her  husband's  moustache. 

*  Of  course  you  know  you  behaved  abominably 
that  next  day  at  Wythburn!     You  kept  that  whole 
party  waiting  while  you  ran  after  us.    And  I  hadn't 
dropped  that  bag.     You  knew  very  well  I  hadn't 
dropped  it!  ' 

He  chuckled. 

*  It  did  as  well  as  anything  else.    I  got  five  min- 
utes' talk  with  you.    I  found  out  where  you  lodged.' 

1  Poor  papa  !  ' — said  Nelly  reflectively — '  he  was 
so  puzzled.  "  There's  that  fellow  we  saw  at  Wyth- 
burn again!  Why  on  earth  does  he  come  here  to 
fish?  I  never  saw  anybody  catch  a  thing  in  this  bit 
of  the  river."  Poor  papa ! ' 

They  were  both  silent  a  little.  Mr.  Cookson  had 
not  lived  long  enough  to  see  Nelly  and  George  Sar- 
ratt  engaged.  The  war  had  killed  him.  Financial 


28  'MISSING' 

embarrassment  was  already  closing  on  him  when  it 
broke  out,  and  he  could  not  stand  the  shock  and  the 
general  dislocation  of  the  first  weeks,  as  sounder  men 
could.  The  terror  of  ruin  broke  him  down — and 
he  was  dead  before  Christmas,  nominally  of  bronchi- 
tis and  heart  failure.  Nelly  had  worn  mourning  for 
him  up  to  her  wedding  day.  She  had  been  very  sorry 
for  'poor  papa  ' — and  very  fond  of  him;  whereas 
Bridget  had  been  rather  hard  on  him  always.  For 
really  he  had  done  his  best.  After  all  he  had  left 
them  just  enough  to  live  upon.  Nelly's  conscience, 
grown  tenderer  than  of  old  under  the  touch  of  joy, 
pricked  her  as  she  thought  of  her  father.  She  knew 
he  had  loved  her  best  of  his  two  daughters.  She 
would  always  remember  his  last  lingering  hand-clasp, 
always  be  thankful  for  his  last  few  words — '  God 
bless  you,  dear.'  But  had  she  cared  for  him  enough 
in  return? — had  she  really  tried  to  understand  him? 
Some  vague  sense  of  the  pathos  of  age — of  its  isola- 
tion— its  dumb  renouncements — gripped  her.  If  he 
had  only  lived  longer !  He  would  have  been  so  proud 
of  George. 

She  roused  herself. 

'  You  did  really  make  up  your  mind — then?  '  she 
asked  him,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him  con- 
fess it  again. 

'  Of  course  I  did !    But  what  was  the  good?  ' 

She  knew  that  he  meant  it  had  been  impossible 
to  speak  while  his  mother  was  still  alive,  and  he,  her 
only  child,  was  partly  dependent  upon  her.  But  his 


'MISSING'  29 

mother  had  died  not  long  after  Nelly's  father,  and 
her  little  income  had  come  to  her  son.  So  now  what 
with  Nelly's  small  portion,  and  his  mother's  two 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year  in  addition  to  his  pay,  the 
young  subaltern  thought  himself  almost  rich — in 
comparison  with  so  many  others.  His  father,  who 
had  died  while  he  was  still  at  school,  had  been  a  mas- 
ter at  Harrow,  and  he  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
refined  home,  with  high  standards  and  ideals.  A 
scholarship  at  Oxford  at  one  of  the  smaller  colleges, 
a  creditable  degree,  then  an  opening  in  the  office  of  a 
well-known  firm  of  solicitors,  friends  of  his  father, 
and  a  temporary  commission,  as  soon  as  war  broke 
out,  on  his  record  as  a  keen  and  diligent  member  of 
the  Harrow  and  Oxford  O.T.C.'s: — these  had  been 
the  chief  facts  of  his  life  up  to  August  1914; — that 
August  which  covered  the  roads  leading  to  the 
Aldershot  headquarters,  day  by  day,  with  the  ever- 
renewed  columns  of  the  army  to  be,  with  masses  of 
marching  men,  whose  eager  eyes  said  one  thing 
only — '  Training! — training! ' 

The  war,  and  the  causes  of  the  war,  had  moved 
his  nature,  which  was  sincere  and  upright,  pro- 
foundly; all  the  more  perhaps  because  of  a  certain 
kindling  and  awakening  of  the  whole  man,  which  had 
come  from  his  first  sight  of  Nelly  Cookson  in  the 
previous  June,  and  from  his  growing  friendship  with 
her — which  he  must  not  yet  call  love.  He  had  de- 
cided however  after  three  meetings  with  her  that  he 
would  never  marry  anyone  else.  Her  softness,  her 


30  'MISSING' 

yieldingness,  her  delicate  beauty  intoxicated  him. 
He  rejoiced  that  she  was  no  '  new  woman,'  but  only 
a  very  girlish  and  undeveloped  creature,  who  would 
naturally  want  his  protection  as  well  as  his  love. 
For  it  was  his  character  to  protect  and  serve.  He 
had  protected  and  served  his  mother — faithfully  and 
well.  And  as  she  was  dying,  he  had  told  her  about 
Nelly — not  before;  only  to  find  that  she  knew  it  all, 
and  that  the  only  soreness  he  had  ever  caused  her 
came  from  the  secrecy  which  he  had  tenderly  thought 
her  due. 

But  for  all  his  sanity  and  sweet  temper  there  was 
a  hard  tough  strain  in  him,  which  had  made  war  so 
far,  even  through  the  horrors  of  it,  a  great  absorb- 
ing game  to  him,  for  which  he  knew  himself  fitted, 
in  which  he  meant  to  excel.  Several  times  during  the 
fighting  that  led  up  to  Neuve  Chapelle  he  had  drawn 
the  attention  of  his  superiors,  both  for  bravery  and 
judgment;  and  after  Neuve  Chapelle,  he  had  been 
mentioned  in  despatches.  He  had  never  yet  known 
fear  in  the  field — never  even  such  a  shudder  at  the 
unknown — which  was  yet  the  possible ! — as  he  had 
just  been  conscious  of.  His  nerves  had  always  been 
strong,  his  nature  was  in  the  main  simple.  Yet  for 
him,  as  well  as  for  so  many  other  *  fellows  '  he  knew, 
the  war  had  meant  a  great  deal  of  this  new  and  puz- 
zled thinking — on  problems  of  right  and  wrong,  of 
'  whence  '  and  *  whither,'  of  the  personal  value  of 
men — this  man,  or  that  man.  By  George,  war 
brought  them  out ! — these  personal  values.  And  the 


'MISSING'  31 

general  result  for  him,  up  to  now, — had  he  been 
specially  lucky? — had  been  a  vast  increase  of  faith 
in  his  fellow  men,  yes,  and  faith  in  himself,  modest 
as  he  was.  He  was  proud  to  be  an  English  soldier — 
proud  to  the  roots  of  his  being.  His  quiet  patriotism 
had  become  a  passion;  he  knew  now  in  what  he  had 
believed. 

Yes — England  for  ever !  An  English  home  after 
the  war — and  English  children.  Oh,  he  hoped  Nelly 
would  have  children !  As  he  held  her  pressed  against 
him,  he  seemed  to  see  her  in  the  future — with  the 
small  things  round  her.  But  he  did  not  speak 
of  it. 

She  meanwhile  was  thinking  of  quite  other  things, 
and  presently  she  said  in  a  quick,  troubled  voice — 

4  George ! — while  you  are  away — you  don't  want 
me  to  do  munitions?  ' 

He  laughed  out. 

4  Munitions !  I  see  you  at  a  lathe !  Dear — I 
don't  think  you'd  earn  your  keep ! '  And  he  lifted 
her  delicate  arm  and  tiny  hand,  and  looked  at  them 
with  scientific  curiosity.  Her  frail  build  was  a  con- 
stant wonder  and  pleasure  to  him.  But  small  as  she 
was,  there  was  something  unusual,  some  prophecy, 
perhaps,  of  developments  to  come,  in  the  carriage  of 
her  head,  and  in  some  of  her  looks.  Her  education 
had  been  extremely  slight,  many  of  her  ideas  were 
still  childish,  and  the  circle  from  which  she  came 
had  been  inferior  in  birth  and  breeding  to  his  own. 
But  he  had  soon  realised  on  their  honeymoon,  in 


32  'MISSING' 

spite  of  her  simple  talk,  that  she  was  very  quick — 
very  intelligent. 

*  Because — '  she  went  on,  doubtfully — *  there  are 
so  many  other  things  I  could  do — quite  useful  things. 
There's  sphagnum  moss!     Everybody  up  here   is 
gathering   sphagnum   moss — you    know — for   ban- 
dages— upon  the  fells.    I  daresay  Bridget  might  help 
in   that.    She   won't  do   any   other   sort   of   war- 
work.' 

1  Why,  I  thought  all  women  were  doing  some  kind 
of  war-work ! ' 

*  Bridget  won't.    She  doesn't  want  to  hear  about 
the  war  at  all.    She's  bored  with  it.' 

'  Bored  with  it!  Good  heavens ! '  Sarratt's  coun- 
tenance clouded.  *  Darling — that'll  be  rather  hard 
on  you,  if  you  and  she  are  going  to  live  together.' 

Nelly  lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  at  him  rather  gravely. 

'  I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  much  about  Bridget, 
George.  She's, — well,  she's — one  of  the — oddest 
women  you  ever  met.* 

*  So  it  seems !     But  why  is  she  bored  with  the 
war?' 

*  Well — you  see — it  doesn't  matter  to  her  in  any 
way — and  she   doesn't  want  it  to  matter  to  her. 
There's  nobody  in  it  she  cares  about.' 

*  Thanks ! '  laughed  Sarratt.    But  Nelly  still  grave, 
shook  her  head.    '  Oh,  she's  not  the  least  like  other 
people.    She  won't  care  about  you,  George,  just  be- 
cause you've  married  me.    And — ' 


'MISSING'  33 

*  And  what  ?    Is  she  still  angry  with  me  for  not 
being  rich? ' 

And  his  thoughts  went  back  to  his  first  interview 
with  Bridget  Cookson — on  the  day  when  their  en- 
gagement was  announced.  He  could  see  the  tall 
sharp-featured  woman  now,  standing  with  her  back 
to  the  light  in  the  little  sitting-room  of  the  Man- 
chester lodgings.  She  had  not  been  fierce  or  abusive 
at  all.  She  had  accepted  it  quietly — with  only  a  few 
bitter  sentences. 

'  All  right,  Mr.  Sarratt.  I  have  nothing  to  say. 
Nelly  must  please  herself.  But  you've  done  her  an 
injury !  There  are  plenty  of  rich  men  that  would 
have  married  her.  You're  very  poor — and  so 
are  we.' 

When  the  words  were  spoken,  Nelly  had  just 
accepted  him;  she  was  her  own  mistress;  he  had  not 
therefore  taken  her  sister's  disapproval  much  to 
heart.  Still  the  words  had  rankled. 

'  Darling ! — when  I  made  you  marry  me — did  I 
do  you  an  injury?'  he  said  suddenly,  as  they  were 
walking  again  hand  in  hand  along  the  high  green 
path  with  the  lake  at  their  feet,  and  a  vision  of  blue 
and  rose  before  them,  in  the  shadowed  western 
mountains,  the  lower  grounds  steeped  in  fiery  light, 
and  the  red  reflections  in  the  still  water. 

*  What  do  you  mean? '  said  Nelly,  turning  upon 
him  a  face  of  wonder. 

*  Well,  that  was  what  Bridget  said  to  me,  when  I 
told  her  that  you  had  accepted  me.    But  I  was  a  great 


34  'MISSING' 

fool  to  tell  you,  darling!  I'm  sorry  I  did.  It  was 
only — ' 

4  "  Injury,"  '  repeated  Nelly,  not  listening  to  him. 
4  Oh,  yes,  of  course  that  was  money.  Bridget  says 
it's  all  nonsense  talking  about  honour,  or  love,  or  that 
kind  of  thing.  Everything  is  really  money.  It  was 
money  that  began  this  war.  The  Germans  wanted 
our  trade  and  our  money — and  we  were  determined 
they  shouldn't  have  them — and  that's  all  there  is 
in  it.  With  money  you  can  have  everything  you 
want  and  a  jolly  life — and  without  money  you  can 
have  nothing, — and  are  just  nobody.  When  that  rich 
old  horror  wanted  to  marry  me  last  year  in  Man- 
chester, Bridget  thought  me  perfectly  mad  to  refuse 
him.  She  didn't  speak  to  me  for  a  week.  Of  course 
he  would  have  provided  for  her  too.' 

Sarratt  had  flushed  hotly;  but  he  spoke  good- 
naturedly. 

4  Well,  that  was  a  miss  for  her — I  quite  see  that. 
But  after  all  we  can  help  her  a  bit.  We  shall  always 
feel  that  we  must  look  after  her.  And  why  shouldn't 
she  herself  marry?  ' 

Nelly  laughed. 

4  Never!     She  hates  men.' 

There  was  a  silence  a  moment.  And  then  Sarratt 
said,  rather  gravely — '  I  say,  darling,  if  she's  going 
to  make  you  miserable  while  I  am  away,  hadn't  we 
better  make  some  other  arrangement?  I  thought 
of  course  she  would  be  good  to  you,  and  look  after 


'MISSING'  35 

you!  Naturally  any  sister  would,  that  was  worth 
her  salt!' 

And  he  looked  down  indignantly  on  the  little  figure 
beside  him.  But  it  roused  Nelly's  mirth  that  he 
should  put  it  in  that  way. 

4  George, — you  are  such  a  darling ! — and — and, 
such  a  goose !  '  She  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his 
arm  as  though  to  take  the  edge  off  the  epithet.  '  The 
idea  of  Bridget's  wanting  to  "  look  after "  me ! 
She'll  want  to  manage  me  of  course — and  I'd  much 
better  let  her  do  it.  I  don't  mind ! '  And  the 
speaker  gave  a  long,  sudden  sigh. 

'  But  I  won't  have  you  troubled  and  worried,  when 
I'm  not  there  to  protect  you ! '  cried  Sarratt,  fiercely. 
*  You  could  easily  find  a  friend.' 

But  Nelly  shook  her  head. 

1  Oh,  no.  That  wouldn't  do.  Bridget  and  I  al- 
ways get  on,  George.  We  never  quarrelled — ex- 
cept when  I  stuck  to  marrying  you.  Generally — I 
always  give  in.  It  doesn't  matter.  It  answers 
perfectly.' 

She  spoke  with  a  kind  of  languid  softness  which 
puzzled  him. 

*  But  now  you  can't  always  give  in,  dearest!    You 
belong  to  me ! '    And  his  grasp  tightened  on  the  hand 
he  held. 

*  I  can  give  in  enough — to  keep  the  peace,1  said 
Nelly  slowly.    '  And  if  you  weren't  here,  it  wouldn't 
be  natural  that  I  shouldn't  live  with  Bridget.     I'm 
used  to  her.    Only  I  want  to  make  you  understand 


36  'MISSING' 

her,  darling.  She's  not  a  bit  like — well,  like  the 
people  you  admire,  and  its  no  good  expecting  her 
to  be.' 

*  I  shall  talk  to  her  before  I  go !  '  he  said,  half 
laughing,   half  resolved. 

Nelly  looked  alarmed. 

*  No — please  don't !     She  always  gets  the  better 
of  people  who  scold  her.     Or  if  you  were  to  get 
the  better,  then  she'd  visit  it  on  me.     And  now 
don't  let's  talk  of  her  any  more !     What  were  we 
saying?    Oh,  I  know — what  I  was  to  do.    Let's  sit 
down  again, — there's  a  rock,  made  for  us.' 

And  on  a  natural  seat  under  a  sheltering  rock 
canopied  and  hung  with  fern,  the  two  rested  once 
more,  wrapped  in  one  cloak,  close  beside  the  water, 
which  was  quiet  again,  and  crossed  by  the  magical 
lights  and  splendid  shadows  of  the  dying  sunset. 
Nelly  had  been  full  of  plans  when  they  sat  down, 
but  the  nearness  of  the  man  she  loved,  his  arm  round 
her,  his  life  beating  as  it  were  in  one  pulse  with  hers, 
intoxicated,  and  for  a  time  silenced  her.  She  had 
taken  off  her  hat,  and  she  lay  quietly  against  him  in 
the  warm  shelter  of  the  cloak.  He  thought  presently 
she  was  asleep.  How  small  and  dear  she  was !  He 
bent  over  her,  watching  as  closely  as  the  now  dim 
light  allowed,  the  dark  eyelashes  lying  on  her  cheek, 
her  closed  mouth,  and  soft  breathing.  His  very 
own ! — the  thought  was  ecstasy — he  forgot  the  war, 
and  the  few  days  left  him. 


'MISSING'  37 

But  this  very  intensity  of  brooding  love  in  which 
he  held  her,  made  her  restless  after  a  little.  She 
sat  up,  and  smiled  at  him — 

4  We  must  go  home ! — Yes,  we  must.  But  look ! 
— there  is  a  boat !  ' 

And  only  a  few  yards  from  them,  emerging  from 
the  shadows,  they  saw  a  boat  rocking  gently  at 
anchor  beside  a  tiny  landing-stage.  Nelly  sprang 
to  her  feet. 

.*  George ! — suppose  you  were  just  to  row  us  out — 
there — into  the  light ! ' 

But  when  they  came  to  the  boat  they  found  it  pad- 
locked to  a  post  in  the  little  pier. 

*  Ah,  well,  never  mind,'  said  Nelly — *  I'm  sure 
that  man  won't  forget?  ' 

*  That  man  who  spoke  to  us?    Who  was  he?  ' 

'  Oh,  I  found  out  from  Bridget,  and  Mrs.  Weston. 
He's  Sir  William  Farrell,  a  great  swell,  tremendously 
rich.  He  has  a  big  place  somewhere,  out  beyond 
Keswick,  beyond  Bassenthwaite.  You  saw  he  had  a 
stiff  knee?' 

'  Yes.  Can't  fight,  I  suppose — poor  beggar !  He 
was  very  much  struck  by  yout  Mrs.  George  Sar- 
ratt! — that  was  plain.' 

Nelly  laughed — a  happy  childish  laugh. 

'  Well,  if  he  does  get  us  leave  to  boat,  you  needn't 
mind,  need  you  ?  What  else,  I  wonder,  could  he  do 
for  us?' 

'Nothing!'  The  tone  was  decided.  'I  don't 
like  being  beholden  to  great  folk.  But  that,  I  sup- 


38  'MISSING' 

pose,  is  the  kind  of  man  whom  Bridget  would  have 
liked  you  to  marry,  darling?  ' 

*  As  if  he  would  ever  have  looked  at  me ! '  said 
Nelly  tranquilly.  '  A  man  like  that  may  be  as  rich  as 
rich,  but  he  would  never  marry  a  poor  wife.' 

'  Thank  God,  I  don't  believe  money  will  matter 
nearly  as  much  to  people,  after  the  war !  '  said  Sar- 
ratt,  with  energy.  '  It's  astonishing  how  now,  in  the 
army — of  course  it  wasn't  the  same  before  the  war — 
you  forget  it  entirely.  Who  cares  whether  a  man's 
rich,  or  who's  son  he  is  ?  In  my  batch  when  I  went 
up  to  Aldershot  there  were  men  of  all  sorts,  stock- 
brokers, landowners,  city  men,  manufacturers,  solici- 
tors, some  of  them  awfully  rich,  and  then  clerks, 
and  schoolmasters,  and  lots  of  poor  devils,  like  my- 
self. We  didn't  care  a  rap,  except  whether  a  man 
took  to  his  drill,  or  didn't;  whether  he  was  going  to 
keep  the  Company  back  or  help  it  on.  And  it's  just 
the  same  in  the  field.  Nothing  counts  but  what  you 
are — it  doesn't  matter  a  brass  hap'orth  what  you 
have.  And  as  the  new  armies  come  along  that'll  be 
so  more  and  more.  It's  "  Duke's  son  and  Cook's 
son,"  everywhere,  and  all  the  time.  If  it  was  that  in 
the  South  African  war,  it's  twenty  times  that  now. 
This  war  is  bringing  the  nation  together  as  nothing 
ever  has  done,  or  could  do.  War  is  hellish! — but 
there's  a  deal  to  be  said  for  it! ' 

He  spoke  with  ardour,  as  they  strolled  home- 
ward, along  the  darkening  shore,  she  hanging  on  his 
arm.  Nelly  said  nothing.  Her  little  face  showed 


'MISSING'  39 

very  white  in  the  gathering  shadows.    He  went  on. 

'  There  was  a  Second  Lieutenant  in  our  battalion, 
an  awfully  handsome  boy — heir  to  a  peerage  I  think. 
But  he  couldn't  get  a  commission  quick  enough  to 
please  him  when  the  war  broke  out,  so  he  just  enlisted 
— oh !  of  course  they've  given  him  a  commission 
long  ago.  But  his  great  friend  was  a  young  miner, 
who  spoke  broad  Northumberland,  a  jolly  chap. 
And  these  two  stuck  together — we  used  to  call  them 
the  Heavenly  Twins.  And  in  the  fighting  round  Hill 
60,  the  miner  got  wounded,  and  lay  out  between  the 
lines,  with  the  Boche  shells  making  hell  round  him. 
And  the  other  fellow  never  rested  till  he'd  crawled 
out  to  him,  and  taken  him  water,  and  tied  him  up, 
and  made  a  kind  of  shelter  for  him.  The  miner  was 
a  big  fellow,  and  the  other  was  just  a  slip  of  a  boy. 
So  he  couldn't  drag  in  his  friend,  but  he  got  another 
man  to  go  out  with  him,  and  between  them  they  did 
it  right  enough.  And  when  I  was  in  the  clearing 
station  next  day,  I  saw  the  two — the  miner  in  bed, 
awfully  smashed  up,  and  the  other  sitting  by  him. 
It  made  one  feel  choky.  The  boy  could  have  put 
down  a  cool  hundred  thousand,  I  suppose,  if  it  could 
have  done  any  good.  But  it  wouldn't.  I  can  tell 
you,  darling,  this  war  knocks  the  nonsense  out  of  a 
man ! ' 

'  But  Bridget  is  a  woman!  *  said  a  dreamy  voice 
beside  him. 

Sarratt  laughed;  but  he  was  launched  on  recol- 
lections and  could  not  stop  himself.  Apparently 


40  'MISSING' 

everybody  in  his  company  was  a  hero,  and  had  de- 
served the  Military  Cross  ten  times  over,  except 
himself.  He  described  some  incidents  he  had  per- 
sonally seen,  and  through  the  repressed  fire  with 
which  he  spoke,  the  personality  and  ideals  of  the  man 
revealed  themselves — normal,  strong,  self-forget- 
ting. Had  he  even  forgotten  the  little  creature 
beside  him?  Hardly,  for  instinctively  he  softened 
away  some  of  the  terrible  details  of  blood  and  pain. 
But  he  had  forgotten  Nelly's  prohibition.  And 
when  again  they  had  entered  the  dark  wood  which 
lay  between  them  and  the  cottage  on  the  river-bank, 
suddenly  he  heard  a  trembling  breath,  and  a 
sob. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

I  Nelly,  darling!    Oh,  I  was  a  brute  to  talk  to  you 
like  this.' 

'  No,'  she  said,  struggling  with  herself — '  No  I 
Wait  a  moment.'  She  lay  against  him  trembling 
through  every  limb,  while  he  kissed  and  comforted 
her. 

*  I'm — I'm  not  a  coward,  George ! '  she  said  at 
last,  gasping, — '  I'm  not  indeed.  Only — well,  this 
morning  I  had  about  a  hundred  and  seventy  hours 
left — I  counted  them.  And  now  there  are  fifteen 
less.  And  all  the  time,  while  we  talk,  they  are  slip- 
ping away,  so  quick — so  quick — ' 

But  she  was  regaining  self-control,  and  soon 
released  herself. 

I 1  won't  do  it  again ! '  she  said  piteously,  in  the 


'MISSING'  41 

tone  of  a  penitent  child.     '  I  won't  indeed.     Let's 
go  home.     I'm  all  right.' 

And  home  they  sped,  hand  in  hand,  silently.  The 
little  room  when  they  re-entered  it  was  bright  with 
fire-light,  because  kind  Mrs.  Weston  had  thought  the 
night  chilly,  and  the  white  table  laid  out  for  them 
— its  pretty  china  and  simple  fare — tempted  and 
cheered  them  with  its  look  of  home.  But  Nelly  lay 
on  the  sofa  afterwards  very  pale,  though  smiling  and 
talking  as  usual.  And  through  the  night  she  was 
haunted,  sleeping  and  waking,  by  the  image  of  the 
solitary  boat  rocking  gently  on  the  moonlit  lake, 
the  water  lapping  its  sides.  She  saw  herself  and 
George  adrift  in  it — sailing  into — disappearing  in — 
that  radiance  of  silver  light.  Sleepily  she  hoped  that 
Sir  William  Farrell  would  not  forget  his  promise. 


CHAPTER  III 

'1V/TAY  l  come  in?' 

^LY  J[  Nelly  Sarratt,  who  was  standing  beside 
the  table  in  the  sitting-room,  packing  a 
small  luncheon-basket  with  sandwiches  and  cake, 
looked  up  in  astonishment.  Then  she  went  to  the 
door  which  was  slightly  ajar,  and  opened  it. 

She  beheld  a  very  tall  man  standing  smiling  on 
the  threshold. 

'  I  hope  I'm  not  disturbing  you,  Mrs.  Sarratt — 
but  I  was  on  my  way  for  a  day's  sketching,  and  as 
my  car  passed  your  house,  I  thought  I  would  like 
to  bring  you,  myself,  the  permission  which  I  spoke 
of  on  Saturday.  I  wrote  yesterday,  my  friend 
was  away  from  home  but  I  got  a  telegram  this 
morning.' 

The  visitor  held  out  a  telegram,  which  Nelly  took 
in  some  bewilderment.  It  fluttered  her  to  be  so  much 
thought  for  by  a  stranger — and  a  stranger  moreover 
who  seemed  but  to  wave  his  wand  and  things  were 
done.  But  she  thanked  him  heartily. 

*  Won't  you  come  in,  Sir  William?  '  she  asked  him, 
shyly.  '  My  husband  will  be  here  directly.' 

It  pleased  him  that  she  had  found  out  who  he  was. 
He  protested  that  he  mustn't  stay  a  moment,  but  all 

43 


'MISSING'  43 

the  same  he  came  in,  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  looking  at  the  view.  He  seemed  to  Nelly  to 
fill  the  little  sitting-room.  Not  that  he  was  stout. 
There  was  not  an  ounce  of  superfluous  flesh  on  him 
anywhere.  But  he  stood  at  least  six  foot  four  in 
his  boots;  his  shoulders  were  broad  in  proportion; 
and  his  head,  with  its  strong  curly  hair  of  a  light 
golden  brown,  which  was  repeated  in  his  short  beard, 
carried  itself  with  the  unconscious  ease  of  one  who 
has  never  known  anything  but  the  upper  seats  of  life. 
His  features  were  handsome,  except  for  a  broad 
irregular  mouth,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  kind  and 
lazily  humorous. 

'  There's  nothing  better  than  that  lake,'  he  said, 
motioning  towards  it,  with  his  hand,  as  though  he 
followed  the  outlines  of  the  hills.  '  But  I  never  try 
to  draw  it.  I  leave  that  to  the  fellows  who  think 
they  can !  I'm  afraid  your  permit's  only  for  a  week, 
Mrs.  Sarratt.  The  boat,  I  find,  will  be  wanted  after 
that.' 

'  Oh,  but  my  husband  will  be  gone  in  a  week — less 
than  a  week.  I  couldn't  row  myself ! '  said  Nelly, 
smiling. 

But  Sir  William  thought  the  smile  trembled  a  little, 
and  he  felt  very  sorry  for  the  small,  pretty  creature. 

'  You  will  be  staying  on  here  after  your  husband 
goes? ' 

'  Oh  yes.  My  sister  will  be  with  me.  We  know 
the  Lakes  very  well.' 

'  Staying  through  the  summer,  I  suppose  ?  ' 


44  'MISSING' 

4 1  shan't  want  to  move — if  the  war  goes  on.  We 
haven't  any  home  of  our  own — yet.' 

She  had  seated  herself,  and  spoke  with  the  self- 
possession  which  belongs  to  those  who  know  them- 
selves fair  to  look  upon.  But  there  seemed  to  be  no 
coquetry  about  her — no  consciousness  of  a  male  to 
be  attracted.  All  her  ways  were  very  gentle  and 
childish,  and  in  her  white  dress  she  made  the  same 
impression  on  Farrell  as  she  had  on  Bridget,  of 
extreme — absurd — youthfulness.  He  guessed  her 
age  about  nineteen,  perhaps  younger. 

*  I'm  afraid  the  war  will  go  on,'  he  said,  kindly. 
*  We  are  only  now  just  finding  out  our  deficiencies.' 

Nelly  sighed. 

1 1  know — it's  awful  how  we  want  guns  and  shells ! 
My  husband  says  it  makes  him  savage  to  see  how  we 
lose  men  for  want  of  them.  Why  are  we  so  short? 
Whose  fault  is  it?' 

A  spot  of  angry  colour  had  risen  in  her  cheelc. 
It  was  the  dove  defending  her  mate.  The  change 
was  lovely,  and  Farrell,  with  his  artist's  eye,  watched 
it  eagerly.  But  he  shook  his  head. 

1  It's  nobody's  fault.  It's  all  on  such  a  scale — 
unheard  of!  Nobody  could  have  guessed  before- 
hand— unless  like  Germany,  we  had  been  preparing 
for  years  to  rob  and  murder  our  neighbours.  Well, 
Mrs.  Sarratt,  I  must  be  going  on.  But  I  wanted  to 
say,  that  if  we  could  do  anything  for  you — please 
command  us.  We  live  about  twenty  miles  from  here. 
My  sister  hopes  she  may  come  and  see  you.  And  we 


'MISSING'  45 

have  a  big  library  at  Carton.  If  there  are  any  books 
you  want ' 

4  Oh,  how  very  kind  of  you ! '  said  Nelly  grate- 
fully. She  had  risen  and  was  standing  beside  him, 
looking  at  him  with  her  dark,  frank  eyes.  '  But  in- 
deed I  shall  get  on  very  well.  There's  a  war  work- 
room in  Manchester,  which  will  send  me  work.  And 
I  shall  try  and  help  with  the  sphagnum  moss. 
There's  a  notice  up  near  here,  asking  people  to  help. 
And  perhaps  ' — she  laughed  and  colored — '  I  shall 
try  to  sketch  a  little.  I  can't  do  it  a  bit — but  it 
amuses  me.' 

'  Oh,  you  draw? '  said  Farrell,  with  a  smile.  Then, 
looking  round  him,  he  noticed  a  portfolio  on  the 
table,  with  a  paint  box  beside  it.  *  May  I  look?  ' 

With  rather  red  cheeks,  Nelly  showed  her  per- 
formances. She  knew  very  well,  being  accustomed 
to  follow  such  things  in  the  newspapers,  that  Sir 
William  Farrell  had  exhibited  both  in  London  and 
Manchester,  and  was  much  admired  by  some  of  the 
critics. 

Farrell  twisted  his  mouth  over  them  a  good  deal, 
considering  them  carefully. 

'  Yes,  I  see — I  see  exactly  where  you  are.  Not 
bad  at  all,  some  of  them.  I  could  lend  you  some 
things  which  would  help  you  I  think.  Ah,  here  is 
your  husband.' 

George  Sarratt  entered,  looking  in  some  surprise 
at  their  very  prompt  visitor,  and  a  little  inclined  to 
stand  on  his  guard  against  a  patronage  that  might 


46  'MISSING' 

be  troublesome.  But  Farrell  explained  himself  so 
apologetically  that  the  young  man  could  only  add  his 
very  hearty  thanks  to  his  wife's. 

*  Well,  I  really  must  be  off,'  said  Farrell  again, 
looking  for  his  hat.    *  And  I  see  you  are  going  out 
for  the  day.'    He  glanced  at  the  lunch  preparations. 
1  Do  you  know  Loughrigg  Tarn?'     He  turned  to 
Nelly. 

'  Oh,  yes ! '  Her  face  glowed.  *  Isn't  it  beauti- 
ful? But  I  don't  think  George  knows  it.'  She 
looked  up  at  him.  He  smiled  and  shook  his 
head. 

*  I  have  a  cottage  there,'  said  Farrell,  addressing 
Sarratt.     *  Wordsworth  said  it  was  like  Nemi.     It 
isn't: — but  it's  beautiful  all  the  same.     I  wish  you 
would  bring  your  wife  there  to  tea  with  me  one  day 
before  you  go?    There  is  an  old  woman  who  looks 
after  me.     This  view  is  fine  ' — he  pointed  to  the 
window — '  but  I  think  mine  is  finer.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Sarratt,  rather  formally — *  but 
I  am  afraid  our  days  are  getting  pretty  full.' 

*  Of  course,  of  course ! '  said  Sir  William,  smiling. 
*  I  only  meant,  if  you  happened  to  be  walking  in  that 
direction  and  want  a  rest.     I  have  a  number  of 
drawings  there — my  own  and  other  people's,  which 
Mrs.  Sarratt  might  care  to  see — sometime.    You  go 
on  Saturday?  ' 

*  Yes.     I'm  due  to  rejoin  by  Monday.' 
Farrell's  expression  darkened. 

'  You  see  what  keeps  me  ?  '  he  said,  sharply,  strik- 


'MISSING'  47 

ing  his  left  knee  with  the  flat  of  his  hand.  *  I  had  a 
bad  fall,  shooting  in  Scotland,  years  ago — when  I 
was  quite  a  lad.  Something  went  wrong  in  the  knee- 
cap. The  doctors  muffed  it,  and  I  have  had  a  stiff 
knee  ever  since.  I  daresay  they'd  give  me  work  at 
the  War  Office — or  the  Admiralty.  Lots  of  fellows 
I  know  who  can't  serve  are  doing  war-work  of  that 
kind.  But  I  can't  stand  office  work — never  could. 
It  makes  me  ill,  and  in  a  week  of  it  I  am  fit  to  hang 
myself.  I  live  out  of  doors.  I've  done  some  recruit- 
ing— speaking  for  the  Lord  Lieutenant.  But  I  can't 
speak  worth  a  cent — and  I  do  no  good.  No  fellow 
ever  joined  up  because  of  my  eloquence ! — couldn't 
if  he  tried.  No — I've  given  up  my  house — it  was 
the  best  thing  I  could  do.  It's  a  jolly  house,  and  I've 
got  lots  of  jolly  things  in  it.  But  the  War  Office  and 
I  between  us  have  turned  it  into  a  capital  hospital. 
We  take  men  from  the  Border  regiments  mostly. 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  live  in  it  again ! 
My  sister  and  I  are  now  in  the  agent's  house.  I 
work  at  the  hospital  three  or  four  days  a  week — and 
then  I  come  here  and  sketch.  I  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't.' 

He  straightened  his  shoulder  as  though  defying 
somebody.  Yet  there  was  something  appealing,  and, 
as  it  were,  boyish,  in  the  defiance.  The  man's 
patriotic  conscience  could  be  felt  struggling  with  his 
dilettantism.  Sarratt  suddenly  liked  him. 

*  No,  indeed,'  he  said  heartily.  '  Why  shouldn't 
you? ' 


48  'MISSING' 

*  It's  when  one  thinks  of  your  job,  one  feels  a  brute 
to  be  doing  anything  one  likes.' 

4  Well,  you'd  be  doing  the  same  job  if  you  could. 
That's  all  right ! '  said  Sarratt  smiling. 

It  was  curious  how  in  a  few  minutes  the  young 
officer  had  come  to  seem  the  older  and  more  respon- 
sible of  the  two  men.  Yet  Farrell  was  clearly  his 
senior  by  some  ten  or  fifteen  years.  Instinctively 
Nelly  moved  nearer  to  George.  She  liked  to  feel 
how  easily  he  could  hold  his  own  with  great  people, 
who  made  her  feel  nervous.  For  she  understood 
from  Mrs.  Weston  that  the  Farrells  were  very  great 
people  indeed,  as  to  money  and  county  position,  and 
that  kind  of  thing. 

Sarratt  took  his  visitor  downstairs,  and  returned, 
laughing  to  himself. 

'  Well,  darling,  I've  promised  we'll  go  to  his  cot- 
tage one  day  this  week.  You've  to  let  him  know. 
He's  an  odd  fellow !  Reminds  me  of  that  story  of 
the  young  Don  at  Cambridge  who  spent  all  the  time 
he  could  spare  from  neglecting  his  duties  in  adorning 
his  person.  And  yet  that  doesn't  hit  it  quite  either. 
For  I  don't  suppose  he  does  spend  much  time  in 
adorning  his  person.  He  doesn't  want  it.  He's  such 
a  splendid  looking  chap  to  begin  with.  But  I'm  sure 
his  duties  have  a  poor  time !  Why,  he  told  me — me, 
an  utter  stranger! — as  we  went  downstairs — that 
being  a  landowner  was  the  most  boring  trade  in  the 
world.  He  hated  his  tenants,  and  turned  all  the 
bother  of  them  over  to  his  agents.  "  But  they  don't 


'MISSING'  49 

hate  me  " — he  said — u  because  I  don't  put  the  screw 
on.  I'm  rich  enough  without."  By  Jove,  he's  a 
queer  specimen ! ' 

And  Sarratt  laughed  out,  remembering  some  fur- 
ther items  of  the  conversation  on  the  stairs. 

'  Whom  are  you  discussing?  '  said  a  cold  voice  in 
the  background. 

It  was  Bridget  Cookson's  voice,  and  the  husband 
and  wife  turned  to  greet  her.  The  day  was  balmy — 
June  at  its  best.  But  Bridget  as  she  came  in  had  the 
look  of  someone  rasped  with  east  wind.  Nelly 
noticed  too  that  since  her  marrage,  Bridget  had 
developed  an  odd  habit  of  not  looking  her — or 
George — straight  in  the  face.  She  looked  sideways, 
as  though  determined  to  avoid  the  mere  sight  of 
their  youth  and  happiness.  *  Is  she  going  to  make  a 
quarrel  of  it  all  our  lives?'  thought  Nelly  impa- 
tiently. '  And  when  George  is  so  nice  to  her !  How 
can  she  be  so  silly ! ' 

'  We  were  talking  about  our  visitor  who  has  just 
left,'  said  Sarratt,  clearing  a  chair  for  his  sister-in- 
law.  *  Ah,  you  came  from  the  other  direction,  you 
just  missed  him.' 

*  The  man  ' — said  Nelly — *  who  was  so  awfully 
polite  to  me  on  Saturday — Sir  William  Farrell.' 

Bridget's  countenance  lost  its  stiffness  at  once — 
became  eager  and  alert. 
'  What  did  he  come  f or  ?' 

*  To  bring  us  permission  to  use  the  boat  for  a 


50  'MISSING' 

week,'  said  Nelly.  *  Wasn't  it  decent  of  him? — and 
to  do  it  so  quick !  ' 

'  Oh,  that's  the  Farrell  way — always  was,'  said 
Bridget  complacently,  as  though  she  had  the  family 
in  her  pocket.  'When  they  think  of  a  thing  it's 
done.  It's  hit  or  miss.  They  never  stop  to 
think.' 

Sarratt  looked  at  his  sister-in-law  with  a  covert 
amusement.  It  was  a  left-handed  remark.  But  she 
went  on — while  Nelly  finished  the  packing  of  the 
luncheon-basket — pouring  out  a  flood  of  gossip  about 
the  Farrells's  place  near  Cockermouth,  their  great 
relations,  their  wealth,  their  pictures,  and  their  china, 
while  Sarratt  walked  up  and  down,  fidgeting  with 
his  mouth,  and  inwardly  thanking  his  stars  that  his 
Nelly  was  not  the  least  like  her  sister,  that  she  was 
as  refined  and  well-bred,  as  Bridget  was  beginning 
to  seem  to  him  vulgar  and  tiresome.  But  he  realised 
that  there  was  a  personality  in  the  tall  harsh  woman; 
that  she  might  be  formidable;  and  once  or  twice  he 
found  himself  watching  the  curious  side-long  action 
of  her  head  and  neck,  and  the  play  of  her  eyes  and 
mouth,  with  a  mingling  of  close  attention  and  strong 
dislike.  He  kept  his  own  counsel  however ;  and  pres- 
ently he  heard  Bridget,  who  had  so  far  refused  all 
their  invitations  to  join  their  walks  or  excursions, 
rather  eagerly  accepting  Nelly's  invitation  to  go  with 
them  to  Sir  William's  Loughrigg  cottage.  She  knew 
all  about  it  apparently,  and  said  it  was  *  a  gem  of  a 
place ! '  Sir  William  kept  an  old  butler  and  his  wife 


'MISSING'  51 

there — pensioned  off — who  looked  after  him  when 
he  came.  *  Everything's  tiny,'  said  Bridget  with 
emphasis — '  but  perfect!  Sir  William  has  the  most 
exquisite  taste.  But  he  never  asks  anybody  to  go 
there.  None  of  the  neighbours  know  him.  So  of 
course  they  say  its  "  side,"  and  he  gives  himself  airs. 
Anyway,  Nelly,  you  may  think  yourselves  highly 
honoured ' 

'Darling,  isn't  that  basket  ready?'  said  Sarratt, 
coming  to  his  wife's  aid.  *  We're  losing  the  best  of 
the  day — and  if  Bridget  really  won't  go  with  us ' 

Bridget  frowned  and  rose. 

'How  are  the  proofs  getting  on?'  said  Sarratt, 
smiling,  as  she  bade  him  a  careless  good-bye. 

Bridget  drew  herself  up. 

*  I  never  talk  about  my  work.' 

4 1  suppose  that's  a  good  rule,'  he  said  doubtfully, 
1  especially  now  that  there's  so  much  else  to  talk 
about.  The  Russian  news  to-day  is  pretty  bad ! ' 

A  dark  look  of  anxiety  crossed  the  young  man's 
face.  For  it  was  the  days  of  the  great  Russian  re- 
treat in  Galicia  and  Poland,  and  every  soldier  looking 
on,  knew  with  gnashing  of  teeth  that  the  happenings 
in  the  East  meant  a  long  postponement  of  our  own 
advance. 

'  Oh,  I  never  trouble  about  the  war  1 '  said  Bridget, 
with  a  half-contemptuous  note  in  her  voice  that  fairly 
set  George  Sarratt  on  fire.  He  flushed  violently, 
and  Nelly  looked  at  him  in  alarm.  But  he  said  noth- 
ing. Nelly  however  with  a  merry  side-glance  at 


52  'MISSING' 

him,  unseen  by  Bridget,  interposed  to  prevent  him 
from  escorting  Bridget  downstairs.  She  went  her- 
self. Most  sisters  would  have  dispensed  with  or 
omitted  this  small  attention;  but  Nelly  always  treated 
Bridget  with  a  certain  ceremony.  When  she  re- 
turned, she  threw  her  arms  round  George's  neck,  half 
laughing,  and  half  inclined  to  cry. 

*  Oh,  George,  I  do  wish  I  had  a  nicer  sister  to  give 
you ! '  But  George  had  entirely  recovered  himself. 

'  We  shall  get  on  perfectly ! '  he  declared,  kissing 
the  soft  head  that  leant  against  him.  '  Give  me  a 
little  time,  darling.  She's  new  to  me ! — I'm  new  to 
her.' 

Nelly  sighed,  and  went  to  put  on  her  hat.  In  her 
opinion  it  was  no  more  easy  to  like  Bridget  after 
three  years  than  three  hours.  It  was  certain  that  she 
and  George  would  never  suit  each  other.  At  the 
same  time  Nelly  was  quite  conscious  that  she  owed 
Bridget  a  good  deal.  But  for  the  fact  that  Bridget 
did  the  housekeeping,  that  Bridget  saw  to  the  in- 
vestment of  their  small  moneys,  and  had  generally 
managed  the  business  of  their  joint  life,  Nelly  would 
not  have  been  able  to  dream,  and  sketch,  and  read, 
as  it  was  her  delight  to  do.  It  might  be,  as  she  had 
said  to  Sarratt,  that  Bridget  managed  because  she 
liked  managing.  All  the  same  Nelly  knew,  not 
without  some  prickings  of  conscience  as  to  her  own 
dependence,  that  when  George  was  gone,  she  would 
never  be  able  to  get  on  without  Bridget. 

Into  what  a  world  of  delight  the  two  plunged 


'MISSING'  53 

when  they  set  forth !  The  more  it  rains  in  the  West- 
morland country,  the  more  heavenly  are  the  days 
when  the  clouds  forget  to  rain !  There  were  white 
flocks  of  them  in  the  June  sky  as  the  new-married 
pair  crossed  the  wooden  bridge  beyond  the  garden, 
leading  to  the  further  side  of  the  lake,  but  they  were 
sailing  serene  and  sunlit  in  the  blue,  as  though  their 
whole  business  were  to  dapple  the  hills  with  blue  and 
violet  shadows,  or  sometimes  to  throw  a  dazzling 
reflection  down  into  the  quiet  water.  There  had  been 
rain,  torrential  rain,  just  before  the  Sarratts  arrived, 
so  that  the  river  was  full  and  noisy,  and  all  the  little 
becks  clattering  down  the  fell,  in  their  haste  to  reach 
the  lake,  were  boasting  to  the  summer  air,  as  though 
in  forty-eight  hours  of  rainlessness  they  would  not 
be  as  dry  and  dumb  as  ever  again.  The  air  was 
fresh,  in  spite  of  the  Midsummer  sun,  and  youth  and 
health  danced  in  the  veins  of  the  lovers.  And  yet 
not  without  a  touch  of  something  feverish,  something 
abnormal,  because  of  that  day — that  shrouded  day 
— standing  sentinel  at  the  end  of  the  week.  They 
never  spoke  of  it,  but  they  never  forgot  it.  It 
entered  into  each  clinging  grasp  he  gave  her  hand  as 
he  helped  her  up  or  down  some  steep  or  rugged  bit 
of  path — into  the  lingering  look  of  her  brown  eyes, 
which  thanked  him,  smiling — into  the  moments  of 
silence,  when  they  rested  amid  the  springing  bracken, 
and  the  whole  scene  of  mountain,  cloud  and  water 
spoke  with  that  sudden  tragic  note  of  all  supreme 
beauty,  in  a  world  of  '  brittleness.' 


54  'MISSING' 

But  they  were  not  often  silent.  There  was  so 
much  to  say.  They  were  still  exploring  each  other, 
after  the  hurry  of  their  marriage,  and  short  engage- 
ment. For  a  time  she  chattered  to  him  about  her 
own  early  life — their  old  red-brick  house  in  a  Man- 
chester suburb,  with  its  good-sized  rooms,  its  ma- 
hogany doors,  its  garden,  in  which  her  father  used 
to  work — his  only  pleasure,  after  his  wife's  death, 
besides  *  the  concerts  * — *  You  know  we've  awfully 
good  music  in  Manchester! '  As  for  her  own  scat- 
tered and  scanty  education,  she  had  begun  to  speak 
of  it  almost  with  bitterness.  George's  talk  and  recol- 
lections betrayed  quite  unconsciously  the  standards 
of  the  academic  or  highly-trained  professional  class 
to  which  all  his  father's  kindred  belonged;  and  his 
only  sister,  a  remarkably  gifted  girl,  who  had  died 
of  pneumonia  at  eighteen,  just  as  she  was  going  to 
Girton,  seemed  to  Nelly,  when  he  occasionally 
described  or  referred  to  her,  a  miracle — a  terrifying 
miracle — of  learning  and  accomplishment. 

Once  indeed,  she  broke  out  in  distress : — 

*  Oh,  George,  I  don't  know  anything !  Why 
wasn't  I  sent  to  school !  We  had  a  wretched  little 
governess  who  taught  us  nothing.  And  then  I'm 
lazy — I  never  was  ambitious — like  Bridget.  Do  you 
mind  that  I'm  so  stupid — do  you  mind? ' 

And  she  laid  her  hands  on  his  knee,  as  they  sat 
together  among  the  fern,  while  her  eyes  searched  his 
face  in  a  real  anxiety. 


'MISSING'  55 

What  joy  it  was  to  laugh  at  her — to  tease  her ! 

' How  stupid  are  you,  darling?  Tell  me,  exactly. 
It  is  of  course  a  terrible  business.  If  I'd  only 
known — ' 

But  she  would  be  serious. 

4 1  don't  know  any  languages,  George !  Just  a 
little  French — but  you'd  be  ashamed  if  you  heard  me 
talking  it.  As  to  history — don't  ask ! '  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders  despairingly.  Then  her  face  bright- 
ened. '  But  there's  something!  I  do  love  poetry — 
I've  read  a  lot  of  poetry.' 

'  That's  all  right — so  have  I,'  he  said,  promptly. 

'  Isn't  it  strange — '  her  tone  was  thoughtful — 
*  how  people  care  for  poetry  nowadays !  A  few 
years  ago,  one  never  heard  of  people — ordinary  peo- 
ple— buying  poetry,  new  poetry — or  reading  it. 
But  I  know  a  shop  in  Manchester  that's  just  full  of 
poetry — new  books  and  old  books — and  the  shop- 
man told  me  that  people  buy  it  almost  more  than 
anything.  Isn't  it  funny?  What  makes  them  do  it? 
Is  it  the  war?  ' 

Sarratt  considered  it,  while  making  a  smooth  path 
for  a  gorgeous  green  beetle  through  the  bit  of  turf 
beside  him. 

*  I  suppose  it's  the  war,'  he  said  at  last.  '  It 
does  change  fellows.  It's  easy  enough  to  go  along 
bluffing  and  fooling  in  ordinary  times.  Most  men 
don't  know  what  they  think — or  what  they  feel — or 
whether  they  feel  anything.  But  somehow — out 
there — when  you  see  the  things  other  fellows  are 


56  'MISSING' 

doing — when  you  know  the  things  you  may  have  to 
do  yourself — well ' 

*  Yes,  yes — go  on ! '  she  said  eagerly,  and  he  went 
on,  but  reluctantly,  for  he  had  seen  her  shiver,  and 
the  white  lids  fall  a  moment  over  her  eyes. 

' — it  doesn't  seem  unnatural — or  hypocritical — or 
canting — to  talk  and  feel — sometimes — as  you 
couldn't  talk  or  feel  at  home,  with  life  going  on  just 
as  usual.  I've  had  to  censor  letters,  you  see,  darling 
— and  the  letters  some  of  the  roughest  and  stupidest 
fellows  write,  you'd  never  believe.  And  there's  no 
pretence  in  it  either.  What  would  be  the  good  of 
pretending  out  there?  No — it's  just  the  pace  life 
goes — and  the  fire — and  the  strain  of  it.  It's  awful 
— and  horrible — and  yet  you  wouldn't  not  be  there 
for  the  world.' 

His  voice  dropped  a  little;  he  looked  out  with 
veiled  eyes  upon  the  lake  chequered  with  the  blue  and 
white  of  its  inverted  sky.  Nelly  guessed — trembling 
— at  the  procession  of  images  that  was  passing 
through  them ;  and  felt  for  a  moment  strangely  sepa- 
rated from  him — separated  and  desolate. 

'  George,  it's  dreadful  now— to  be  a  woman ! ' 

She  spoke  in  a  low  appealing  voice,  pressing  up 
against  him,  as  though  she  begged  the  soul  in  him 
that  had  been  momentarily  unconscious  of  her,  to 
come  back  to  her. 

He  laughed,  and  the  vision  before  his  eyes 
broke  up. 

*  Darling,  it's  adorable  now — to  be  a  woman ! 


'MISSING'  57 

How  I  shall  think  of  you,  when  I'm  out  there ! — 
away  from  all  the  grime  and  the  horror — sitting  by 
this  lake,  and  looking — as  you  do  now.' 

He  drew  a  little  further  away  from  her,  and  lying 
on  his  elbows  on  the  grass,  he  began  to  read  her, 
as  it  were,  from  top  to  toe,  that  he  might  fix  every 
detail  in  his  mind. 

4 1  like  that  little  hat  so  much,  Nelly ! — and  that 
blue  cloak  is  just  ripping!  And  what's  that  you've 
got  at  your  waist — a  silver  buckle  ? — yes !  I  gave  it 
you.  Mind  you  wear  it,  when  I'm  away,  and  tell  me 
you're  wearing  it — then  I  can  fancy  it.' 

'  Will  you  ever  have  time — to  think  of  me — 
George  ? ' 

She  bent  towards  him. 

He  laughed. 

*  Well,  not  when  I'm  going  over  the  parapet  to 
attack  the  Boches.  Honestly,  one  thinks  of  nothing 
then  but  how  one  can  get  one's  men  across.  But  you 
won't  come  off  badly,  my  little  Nell — for  thoughts — 
night  or  day.  And  you  mustn't  think  of  us  too  senti- 
mentally. It's  quite  true  that  men  write  wonderful 
letters — and  wonderful  verse  too — men  of  all  ranks 
— things  you'd  never  dream  they  could  write.  I've 
got  a  little  pocket-book  full  that  I've  collected.  I've 
left  it  in  London,  but  I'll  show  you  some  day.  But 
bless  you,  nobody  talks  about  their  feelings  at  the 
front.  We're  a  pretty  slangy  lot  in  the  trenches,  and 
when  we're  in  billets,  we  read  novels  and  rag  each 
other — and  sleep — my  word,  we  do  sleep ! ' 


•58  'MISSING' 

He  rolled  on  his  back,  and  drew  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  a  moment,  for  even  in  the  fresh  mountain  air  the 
June  sun  was  fierce.  Nelly  sat  still,  watching  him, 
as  he  had  watched  her — all  the  young  strength  and 
comeliness  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given  herself. 

And  as  she  did  so  there  came  swooping  down 
upon  her,  like  the  blinding  wings  of  a  Fury,  the 
remembrance  of  a  battle  picture  she  had  seen  that 
morning:  a  bursting  shell — limp  figures  on  the 
ground.  Oh  not  George — not  George — never !  The 
agony  ran  through  her,  and  her  fingers  gripped  the 
turf  beside  her.  Then  it  passed,  and  she  was  silently 
proud  that  she  had  been  able  to  hide  it.  But  it 
had  left  her  pale  and  restless.  She  sprang  up,  and 
they  went  along  the  high  path  leading  to  Grasmere 
and  Langdale. 

Presently  at  the  top  of  the  little  neck  which  sepa- 
rates Rydal  from  Grasmere  they  came  upon  an  odd 
cavalcade.  In  front  walked  an  elderly  lady,  with  a 
huge  open  bag  slung  round  her,  in  which  she  carried 
an  amazing  load  of  the  sphagnum  moss  that  English 
and  Scotch  women  were  gathering  at  that  moment 
all  over  the  English  and  Scotch  mountains  for  the 
surgical  purposes  of  the  war.  Behind  her  came  a 
pony,  with  a  boy.  The  pony  was  laden  with  the 
same  moss,  so  was  the  boy.  The  lady's  face  was 
purple  with  exertion,  and  in  her  best  days  she  could 
never  have  been  other  than  plain;  her  figure  was 
shapeless.  She  stopped  the  pony  as  she  neared  the 
Sarratts,  and  addressed  them — panting. 


'MISSING'  59 

' I  beg  your  pardon ! — but  have  you  by  chance 
seen  another  lady  carrying  a  bag  like  mine?  I 
brought  a  friend  with  me  to  help  gather  this  stuff — 
but  we  seem  to  have  missed  each  other  on  the  top 
of  Silver  How — and  I  can't  imagine  what's  happened 
to  her.' 

The  voice  was  exceedingly  musical  and  refined — 
but  there  was  a  touch  of  power  in  it — a  curious  note 
of  authority.  She  stood,  recovering  breath  and  look- 
ing at  the  young  people  with  clear  and  penetrating 
eyes,  suddenly  observant. 

The  Sarratts  could  only  say  that  they  had  not 
come  across  any  other  moss-gatherer  on  the  road. 

The  strange  lady  sighed — but  with  a  half  humor- 
ous, half  philosophical  lifting  of  the  eyebrows. 

'  It  was  very  stupid  of  me  to  miss  her — but  you 
really  can't  come  to  grief  on  these  fells  in  broad  day- 
light. However,  if  you  do  meet  her — a  lady  with  a 
sailor  hat,  and  a  blue  jersey — will  you  tell  her  that 
I've  gone  on  to  Ambleside  ? ' 

Sarratt  politely  assured  her  that  they  would  look 
out  for  her  companion.  He  had  never  yet  seen  a 
grey-haired  Englishwoman,  of  that  age,  carry  so 
heavy  a  load,  and  he  liked  both  her  pluck  and  her 
voice.  She  reminded  him  of  the  French  peasant 
women  in  whose  farms  he  often  lodged  behind  the 
lines.  She  meanwhile  was  scrutinising  him — the 
badge  on  his  cap,  and  the  two  buttons  on  his  khaki 
sleeve. 

*  I  think  I  know  who  you  are,'  she  said,  with  a 


60  'MISSING' 

sudden  smile.  'Aren't  you  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sarratt? 
Sir  William  Farrell  told  me  about  you.'  Then  she 
turned  to  the  boy — 4  Go  on,  Jim.  I'll  come  soon.' 

A  conversation  followed  on  the  mountain  path,  in 
which  their  new  acquaintance  gave  her  name  as  Miss 
Hester  Martin,  living  in  a  cottage  on  the  outskirts 
of  Ambleside,  a  cousin  and  old  friend  of  Sir  William 
Farrell;  an  old  friend  indeed,  it  seemed,  of  all  the 
local  residents;  absorbed  in  war-work  of  different 
kinds,  and  somewhere  near  sixty  years  of  age;  but 
evidently  neither  too  old  nor  too  busy  to  have  lost 
the  natural  interest  of  a  kindly  spinster  in  a  bride 
and  bridegroom,  especially  when  the  bridegroom  was 
in  khaki,  and  under  orders  for  the  front.  She  prom- 
ised, at  once,  to  come  and  see  Mrs.  Sarratt,  and 
George,  beholding  in  her  a  possible  motherly  friend 
for  Nelly  when  he  should  be  far  away,  insisted  that 
she  should  fix  a  day  for  her  call  before  his  departure. 
Nelly  added  her  smiles  to  his.  Then,  with  a  pleasant 
nod,  Miss  Martin  left  them,  refusing  all  their  offers 
to  help  her  with  her  load.  '  "  My  strength  is  as  the 
strength  of  ten,"  '  she  said  with  a  flash  of  fun  in  her 
eyes — '  But  I  won't  go  on  with  the  quotation.  Good- 
bye.' 

George  and  Nelly  went  on  towards  a  spot  above 
a  wood  in  front  of  them  to  which  she  had  directed 
them,  as  a  good  point  to  rest  and  lunch.  She,  mean- 
while, pursued  her  way  towards  Ambleside,  her 
thoughts  much  more  occupied  with  the  young  couple 
than  with  her  lost  companion.  The  little  thing  was 


'MISSING'  61 

a  beauty,  certainly.  Easy  to  see  what  had  attracted 
William  Farrell!  An  uncommon  type — and  a  very 
artistic  type;  none  of  your  milk-maids.  She  sup- 
posed before  long  William  would  be  proposing  to 
draw  her — hm ! — with  the  husband  away  ?  It  was  to 
be  hoped  some  watch-dog  would  be  left.  William 
was  a  good  fellow — no  real  malice  in  him — had 
never  meant  to  injure  anybody,  that  she  knew  of — 
but — 

Miss  Martin's  cogitations  however  went  no  far- 
ther in  exploring  that  *  but.'  She  was  really  very 
fond  of  her  cousin  William,  who  bore  an  amount 
of  discipline  from  her  that  no  one  else  dared  to  apply 
to  the  owner  of  Carton.  Tragic,  that  he  couldn't 
fight!  That  would  have  brought  out  all  there  was 
in  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GLORIOUS!' 
Nelly  Sarratt  stood  lost  in  the  beauty  of 
the  spectacle  commanded  by  Sir  William 
Farrell's  cottage.  It  was  placed  in  a  by-road  on  the 
western  side  of  Loughrigg,  that  smallest  of  real 
mountains,  beloved  of  poets  and  wanderers.  The 
ground  dropped  sharply  below  it  to  a  small  lake  or 
tarn,  its  green  banks  fringed  with  wood,  while  on 
the  further  side  the  purple  crag  and  noble  head  of 
Wetherlam  rose  out  of  sunlit  mist, — thereby  indefi- 
nitely heightened — into  a  pearl  and  azure  sky.  To 
the  north  also,  a  splendid  wilderness  of  fells,  near 
and  far;  with  the  Pikes  and  Bowfell  leading  the 
host.  White  mists — radiant  mists — perpetually 
changing,  made  a  magic  interweaving  of  fell  with 
fell,  of  mountain  with  sky.  Every  tint  of  blue  and 
purple,  of  amethyst  and  sapphire  lay  melted  in  the 
chalice  carved  out  by  the  lake  and  its  guardian  moun- 
tains. Every  line  of  that  chalice  was  harmonious", 
as  though  each  mountain  and  valley  filled  its  place 
consciously,  in  a  living  order;  and  in  the  grandeur 
of  the  whole  there  was  no  terror,  no  hint  of  a  world 
hostile  and  inaccessible  to  man,  as  in  the  Alps  and 
the  Rockies. 

'  These  mountains  are  one's  friends,'  said  Farrell, 
62 


'MISSING'  63 

smiling  as  he  stood  beside  Nelly,  pointing  out  the 
various  peaks  by  name.  '  If  you  know  them  only  a 
little,  you  can  trust  yourself  to  them,  at  any  hour 
of  the  day  or  night.  Whereas,  in  the  Alps,  I  always 
feel  myself  "  a  worm  and  no  man  " ! ' 

'  I  have  never  been  abroad,'  said  Nelly  shyly. 

For  once  he  found  an  ingenue  attractive. 

'  Then  you  have  it  to  come — when  the  world  is 
sane  again.  But  some  things  you  will  have  missed 
for  ever.  For  instance,  you  will  never  see  Rheims — 
as  it  was.  I  have  spent  months  at  Rheims  in  old 
days,  drawing  and  photographing.  I  must  show  you 
my  things.  They  have  a  tragic  value  now.' 

And  taking  out  a  portfolio  from  a  rack  near  him, 
he  opened  it  and  put  it  on  a  stand  before  her. 

Nelly,  who  had  in  her  the  real  instincts  of  the 
artist,  turned  over  some  very  masterly  drawings,  in 
mingled  delight  and  despair. 

4  If  I  could  only  do  something  like  that!'  she 
said,  pointing  to  a  study  of  some  of  the  famous  win- 
dows at  Rheims,  with  vague  forms  of  saint  and  king 
emerging  from  a  conflagration  of  colour,  kindled 
by  the  afternoon  sun,  and  dyeing  the  pavement 
below. 

'  Ah,  that  took  me  some  time.  It  was  difficult. 
But  here  are  some  fragments  you'll  like — just  bits 
from  the  fagade  and  the  monuments.' 

The  strength  of  the  handling  excited  her.  She 
looked  at  them  in  silence;  remembering  with  disgust 
all  the  pretty  sentimental  work  she  had  been  used  to 


64  'MISSING' 

copy.  She  began  to  envisage  what  this  commonly 
practised  art  may  be;  what  a  master  can  do  with  it. 
Standards  leaped  up.  Alp  on  Alp  appeared.  When 
George  was  gone  she  would  work,  yes,  she  would 
work  hard — to  surprise  him  when  he  came  back. 

Sir  William  meanwhile  was  increasingly  taken  with 
his  guest.  She  was  shy,  very  diffident,  very  young; 
but  in  the  few  things  she  said,  he  discerned — or 
fancied — the  stirrings  of  a  real  taste — real  intelli- 
gence. And  she  was  prettier  and  more  fetching  than 
ever — with  her  small  dark  head,  and  her  lovely 
mouth.  He  would  like  to  draw  the  free  sensuous 
line  of  it,  the  beautiful  moulding  of  the  chin.  What 
a  prize  for  the  young  man !  Was  he  aware  of  his 
own  good  fortune  ?  Was  he  adequate  ? 

4 1  say,  how  jolly ! '  said  Sarratt,  coming  up  to 
look.  *  My  wife,  Sir  William — I  think  she  told  you 
— has  got  a  turn  for  this  kind  of  thing.  These  will 
give  her  ideas.' 

And  while  he  looked  at  the  drawings,  he  slipped  a 
hand  into  his  wife's  arm,  smiling  down  upon  her,  and 
commenting  on  the  sketches.  There  was  nothing  in 
what  he  said.  He  only  *  knew  what  he  liked,'  and  an 
unfriendly  bystander  would  have  been  amused  by  his 
constant  assumption  that  Nelly's  sketches  were  as 
good  as  anybody's.  Entirely  modest  for  himself, 
he  was  inclined  to  be  conceited  for  her,  she  checking 
him,  with  rather  flushed  cheeks.  But  Farrell  liked 
him  all  the  better,  both  for  the  ignorance  and  the 
pride.  The  two  young  people  standing  there  to- 


'MISSING'  65 

gather,  so  evidently  absorbed  in  each  other,  yet  on 
the  brink  of  no  ordinary  parting,  touched  the  roman- 
tic note  in  him.  He  was  very  sorry  for  them — 
especially  for  the  bride — and  eagerly,  impulsively 
wished  to  befriend  them. 

In  the  background,  the  stout  lady  whom  the  Sar- 
ratts  had  met  on  Loughrigg  Terrace,  Miss  Hester 
Martin,  was  talking  to  Miss  Farrell,  while  Bridget 
Cookson  was  carrying  on  conversation  with  a  tall 
officer  who  carried  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  was 
apparently  yet  another  convalescent  officer  from  the 
Carton  hospital,  whom  Cicely  Farrell  had  brought 
over  in  her  motor  to  tea  at  her  brother's  cottage. 
His  name  seemed  to  be  Captain  Marsworth,  and  he 
was  doing  his  best  with  Bridget;  but  there  were  great 
gaps  in  their  conversation,  and  Bridget  resentfully 
thought  him  dull.  Also  she  perceived — for  she  had 
extremely  quick  eyes  in  such  matters — that  Captain 
Marsworth,  while  talking  to  her,  seemed  to  be  really 
watching  Miss  Farrell,  and  she  at  once  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  was  something  '  up  '  be- 
tween him  and  Miss  Farrell. 

Cicely  Farrell  certainly  took  no  notice  of  him.- 
She  was  sitting  perched  on  the  high  end  of  a  sofa 
smoking  a  cigarette  and  dangling  her  feet,  which 
were  encased,  as  before,  in  high-heeled  shoes  and 
immaculate  gaiters.  She  was  dressed  in  white  serge 
with  a  cap  and  jersey  of  the  brightest  possible  green. 
Her  very  open  bodice  showed  a  string  of  fine  pearls,- 
and  she  wore  pearl  ear-rings.  Seen  in  the  same  room 


66  'MISSING' 

with  Nelly  Sarratt  she  could  hardly  be  guessed  at 
less  than  twenty-eight.  She  was  the  mature  woman  in 
full  possession  of  every  feminine  weapon,  experi- 
enced, subtle,  conscious,  a  little  hard,  a  little  ma- 
licious. Nelly  Sarratt  beside  her  looked  a  child. 
Miss  Farrell  had  glanced  at  her  with  curiosity,  but 
had  not  addressed  many  words  to  her.  She  had  con- 
cluded at  once  that  it  was  a  type  that  did  not  interest 
her.  It  interested  William  of  course,  because  he  was 
professionally  on  the  look  out  for  beauty.  But  that 
was  his  affair.  Miss  Farrell  had  no  use  for  anything 
so  unfledged  and  immature.  And  as  for  the  sister, 
Miss  Cookson,  she  had  no  points  of  attraction  what- 
ever. The  young  man,  the  husband,  was  well  enough 
— apparently  a  gentleman;  but  Miss  Farrell  felt  that 
she  would  have  forgotten  his  existence  when  the  tea- 
party  was  over.  So  she  had  fallen  back  on  conversa- 
tion with  her  cousin.  That  Cousin  Hester — dear, 
shapeless,  Puritanical  thing! — disapproved  of  her, 
her  dress,  her  smoking,  her  ways,  and  her  opinions, 
Cicely  well  knew — but  that  only  gave  zest  to  their 
meetings,  which  were  not  very  frequent. 

Meanwhile  Bridget,  in  lieu  of  conversation  and 
while  tea  was  still  preparing,  was  making  mental 
notes  of  the  cottage.  It  consisted  apparently  of  two 
sitting-rooms,  and  a  studio — in  which  they  were  to 
have  tea — with  two  or  three  bedrooms  above.  It 
had  been  developed  out  of  a  Westmorland  farm,  but 
developed  beyond  recognition.  The  spacious  rooms 
panelled  in  plain  oak,  were  furnished  sparely,  with 


'MISSING'  67 

few  things,  but  those  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
costly  kind.  Old  Persian  rugs  and  carpets,  a  few 
Renaissance  mirrors,  a  few  priceless  '  pots,'  a  picture 
or  two,  hangings  and  coverings  of  a  dim  purple — 
the  whole,  made  by  these  various  items  and  objects, 
expressed  a  taste  perhaps  originally  florid,  but  tamed 
by  long  and  fastidious  practice  of  the  arts  of  deco- 
ration. 

In  the  study  where  tea  had  been  laid,  Nelly  could 
not  restrain  her  wonder  and  delight.  On  one  wall 
hung  ten  of  the  most  miraculous  Turners — drawings 
from  his  best  period,  each  of  them  irreplaceably 
famous.  Another  wall  showed  a  group  of  Boning- 
tons — a  third  a  similar  gathering  of  Whistlers.  Sir 
William,  charmed  with  the  bride's  pleasure,  took 
down  drawing  after  drawing,  carried  them  to  the 
light  for  her,  and  discoursed  upon  them. 

'  Would  you  like  that  to  copy?  ' — he  said,  putting 
a  Turner  into  her  lap — a  marvel  of  blue  mountain 
peaks,  and  winding  river,  and  aerial  distance. 

*  Oh,  I  shouldn't  dare — I  should  be  afraid! '  said 
Nelly,  hardly  liking  to  take  the  treasure  in  her  own 
hands.    *  Aren't  they — aren't  they  worth  immense 
sums?  ' 

Sir  William  laughed. 

*  Well,    of   course,    they're    valuable — everybody 
wants  them.    But  if  you  would  ever  like  that  one  to 
copy,  you  shall  have  it,  and  any  other  that  would 
help  you.    I  know  you  wouldn't  let  it  be  hurt,  if  you 
could  help  it — because  you'd  love  it — as  I  do.    You 


68  'MISSING' 

wouldn't  let  a  Turner  drawing  like  that  fade  and 
blister  in  the  sun — as  Pve  seen  happen  again  and 
again  in  houses  he  painted  them  for.  Brutes !  Hang- 
ing's too  good  for  people  who  maltreat  Turners.  Let 
me  relieve  you  of  it  now.  I  must  get  you  some  tea. 
But  the  drawing  will  come  to  you  next  week.  You 
won't  be  able  to  think  of  it  till  then.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  ardent  sympathy  which 
sprang  easily  from  his  quick,  emotional  temperament, 
and  made  it  possible  for  him  to  force  his  way  rapidly 
into  intimacy,  where  he  desired  to  be  intimate.  But 
Nelly  shrank  into  herself.  She  put  the  drawing 
away,  and  did  not  seem  to  care  to  look  at  any  more. 
Farrell  wished  he  had  left  his  remark  unspoken,  and 
finding  that  he  had  somehow  extinguished  her  smiles 
and  her  talk,  he  relieved  her  of  his  company,  and 
went  away  to  talk  to  Sarratt  and  Captain  Mars- 
worth.  As  soon  as  tea  was  over,  Nelly  beckoned  to 
her  husband. 

'Are  you  going  so  soon?'  said  Hester  Martin, 
who  had  been  unobtrusively  mothering  her,  since 
Farrell  left  her — '  When  may  I  come  and  see  you  ? ' 

'  To-morrow  ?  '  said  Nelly  vaguely,  looking  up. 
4  George  hoped  you  would  come,  before  he  goes. 
There  are — there  are  only  three  days.' 

1 1  will  come  to-morrow,'  said  Miss  Martin,  touch- 
ing Nelly's  hand  softly.  The  cold,  small  fingers 
moved,  as  though  instinctively,  towards  her,  and  took 
refuge  in  her  warm  capacious  hand.  Then  Nelly 
whispered  to  Bridget — appealingly — 


'MISSING'  69 

1 1  want  to  go,  Bridget.' 

Bridget  frowned  with  annoyance.  Why  should 
Nelly  want  to  go  so  soon  ?  The  beauty  and  luxury  of 
the  cottage — the  mere  tea-table  with  all  its  perfect 
appointments  of  fine  silver  and  china,  the  multitude 
of  cakes,  the  hot-house  fruit,  the  well-trained  butler 
— all  the  signs  of  wealth  that  to  Nelly  were  rather 
intimidating,  and  to  Sarratt — in  war-time — incon- 
gruous and  repellent,  were  to  Bridget  the  satisfac- 
tion of  so  many  starved  desires.  This  ease  and  lav- 
ishness ;  the  best  of  everything  and  no  trouble  to  get 
it;  the  '  cottage  '  as  perfect  as  the  palace; — it  was  so, 
she  felt,  that  life  should  be  lived,  to  be  really  worth 
living.  She  envied  the  Farrells  with  an  intensity  of 
envy.  Why  should  some  people  have  so  much  and 
others  so  little  ?  And  as  she  watched  Sir  William's 
attentions  to  Nelly,  she  said  to  herself,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  that  but  for  Nelly's  folly,  she  could 
easily  have  captured  wealth  like  this.  Why  not 
Sir  William  himself?  It  would  not  have  been  at  all 
unlikely  that  they  should  come  across  him  on  one  of 
their  Westmorland  holidays.  The  thought  of  their 
dingy  Manchester  rooms,  of  the  ceaseless  care  and 
economy  that  would  be  necessary  for  their  joint 
menage  when  Sarratt  was  gone,  filled  her  with  dis- 
gust. Their  poverty  was  wholly  unnecessary — it  was 
Nelly's  silly  fault.  She  felt  at  times  as  though  she 
hated  her  brother-in-law,  who  had  so  selfishly  crossed 
their  path,  and  ruined  the  hopes  and  dreams  which 
had  been  strengthening  steadily  in  her  mind  during 


yo  'MISSING' 

the  last  two  years  especially,  since  Nelly's  beauty 
had  become  more  pronounced. 

1  It's  not  at  all  late ! '  she  said,  angrily,  in  her 
sister's  ear. 

*  Oh,  but  George  wants  to  take  me  to  Easedale,' 
said  Nelly  under  her  breath.  '  It  will  be  our  last 
long  walk.' 

Bridget  had  to  submit  to  be  torn  away.  A  little 
motor  was  waiting  outside.  It  had  brought  the  Sar- 
ratts  and  Bridget  from  Rydal,  and  was  to  take 
Bridget  home,  dropping  the  Sarratts  at  Grasmere 
for  an  evening  walk.  Sir  William  tried  indeed  to 
persuade  them  to  stay  longer,  till  a  signal  from  his 
cousin  Hester  stopped  him ;  '  Well,  if  you  must  go, 
you  must,'  he  said,  regretfully.  *  Cicely,  you  must 
arrange  with  Mrs.  Sarratt,  when  she  will  pay  us  a 
visit — and  ' — he  looked  uncertainly  round  him,  as 
though  he  had  only  just  remembered  Bridget's  exist- 
ence— *  of  course  your  sister  must  come  too.' 

Cicely  came  forward,  and  with  a  little  lisp, 
repeated  her  brother's  invitation — rather  per- 
functorily. 

Sir  William  took  his  guests  to  their  car,  and  bade 
a  cordial  farewell  to  Sarratt. 

'  Good-bye — and  good  luck.  What  shall  I  wish 
you?  The  D.S.O.,  and  a  respectable  leave  before 
the  summer's  over?  You  will  be  in  for  great 
things.' 

Sarratt  shook  his  head. 

1  Not  till  we  get  more  guns,  and  tons  more  shell  I  * 


'MISSING'  71 

*  Oh,  the  country's  waking  up  1 ' 

*  It's  about  time ! '  said  Sarratt,  gravely,   as  he 
climbed  into  the  car.    Sir  William  bent  towards  him. 

'  Anything  that  we  can  do  to  help  your  wife  and 
her  sister,  during  their  stay  here,  you  may  be  sure 
we  shall  do.' 

'  It's  very  kind  of  you,'  said  the  young  officer 
gratefully,  as  he  grasped  Farrell's  hand.  And  Nelly 
sent  a  shy  glance  of  thanks  towards  the  speaker, 
while  Bridget  sat  erect  and  impassive. 

Sir  William  watched  them  disappear,  and  then 
returned  to  the  tea-room.  He  was  received  with  a 
burst  of  laughter  from  his  sister. 

'Well,  Willy,  so  you're  caught — fairly  caught! 
What  am  I  to  do?  When  am  I  to  ask  her?  And 
the  sister  too?  ' 

And  lighting  another  cigarette,  Cicely  looked  at 
her  brother  with  mocking  eyes. 

Farrell  reddened  a  little,  but  kept  his  temper. 

'  In  a  week  or  two  I  should  think,  you  might  ask 
her,  when  she's  got  over  her  husband's  going  away.' 

*  They  get  over  it  very  soon — in  general,'  said 
Cicely  coolly. 

'  Not  that  sort.' 

The  voice  was  Captain  Marsworth's. 

Cicely  appeared  to  take  no  notice.  But  her  eye- 
lids flickered.  Hester  Martin  interposed. 

'  A  dear,  little,  appealing  thing,'  she  said,  warmly 
— '  and  her  husband  evidently  a  capital  fellow.  I 
didn't  take  to  the  sister — but  who  knows?  She  may 


72  'MISSING' 

be  an  excellent  creature,  all  the  same.  I'm  glad  I 
shall  be  so  near  them.  It  will  be  a  help  to  that  poor 
child  to  find  her  something  to  do.' 

Cicely  laughed. 

'  You  think  she'll  hunt  sphagnum — and  make 
bandages?  I  don't.' 

*  Why  this  "  thusness?  "  '  said  Miss  Martin  rais- 
ing her  eyebrows.     '  What  has  made  you  take  a 
dislike  to  the  poor  little  soul,  Cicely?    There  never 
was  anyone  more  plainly  in  love ' 

'  Or  more  to  be  pitied,'  said  the  low  voice  in 
the  background — low  but  emphatic. 
It  was  now  Cicely's  turn  to  flush. 

*  Of  course  I  know  I'm  a  beast,'  she  said  defi- 
antly,— '  but  the  fact  is  I  didn't  like  either  of  them ! 
— the  sisters,  I  mean.' 

'  What  on  earth  is  there  to  dislike  in  Mrs.  Sar- 
ratt! '  cried  Farrell.  *  You're  quite  mad,  Cicely.' 

'  She's  too  pretty,'  said  Miss  Farrell  obstinately — 
*  and  too — too  simple.  And  nobody  as  pretty  as 
that  can  be  really  simple.  It's  only  pretence.' 

As  she  spoke  Cicely  rose  to  her  feet,  and  began 
to  put  on  her  veil  in  front  of  one  of  the  old  mirrors. 
'  But  of  course,  Will,  I  shall  behave  nicely  to 
your  friends.  Don't  I  always  behave  nicely  to 
them?' 

She  turned  lightly  to  her  brother,  who  looked  at 
her  only  half  appeased. 

*  I  shan't  give  you  a  testimonial  to-day,  Cicely.' 

*  Then  I  must  do  without  it.    Well,  this  day  three 


'MISSING'  73 

weeks,  a  party  at  Carton,  for  Mrs.  Sarratt.  Will 
that  give  her  time  to  settle  down  ?  ' 

4  Unless  her  husband  is  killed  by  then,'  said  Cap- 
tain Marsworth,  quietly.  *  His  regiment  is  close  to 
Loos.  He'll  be  in  the  thick  of  it  directly.' 

*  Oh  no,'  said  Cicely,  twisting  the  ends  of  her  veil 
lightly  between  a  finger  and  thumb.  '  Just  a  "  cushy  " 
wound,  that'll  bring  him  home  on  a  three  months' 
leave,  and  give  her  the  bore  of  nursing  him.' 

'  Cicely,  you  are  a  hard-hearted  wretch ! '  said 
her  brother,  angrily.  *  I  think  Marsworth  and  I  will 
go  and  stroll  till  the  motor  is  ready.' 

The  two  men  disappeared,  and  Cicely  let  herself 
drop  into  an  arm-chair.  Her  eyes,  as  far  as  could 
be  seen  through  her  veil,  were  blazing;  the  redness 
in  her  cheeks  had  improved  upon  the  rouge  with 
which  they  were  already  touched;  and  the  gesture 
with  which  she  pulled  on  her  gloves  was  one  of  excite- 
ment. 

'  Cicely  dear — what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  '  said 
Miss  Martin  in  distress.  She  was  fond  of  Cicely,  in 
spite  of  that  young  lady's  extravagances  of  dress  and 
manner,  and  she  divined  something  gone  wrong. 

'  Nothing  is  the  matter — nothing  at  all.  It  is  only 
necessary,  sometimes,  to  shock  people,'  said  Cicely, 
calming  down.  She  threw  her  head  back  against 
the  chair  and  closed  her  eyes,  while  her  lips  still 
smiled  triumphantly. 

'  Were  you  trying  to  shock  Captain  Marsworth?  ' 

'  It's    so   easy — it's    hardly    worth    doing,'    said 


74  'MISSING' 

Cicely,  sleepily.    Then  after  a  pause — •'  Ah,  isn't  that 
the  motor?' 

Meanwhile  the  little  hired  motor  from  Ambleside 
had  dropped  the  Sarratts  on  the  Easedale  road,  and 
carried  Bridget  away  in  an  opposite  direction,  to  the 
silent  but  great  relief  of  the  newly-married  pair. 
And  soon  the  husband  and  wife  had  passed  the  last 
farm  in  the  valley,  and  were  walking  up  a  rough 
climbing  path  towards  Sour  Milk  Ghyll,  and  Ease- 
dale  Tarn.  The  stream  was  full,  and  its  many  chan- 
nels ran  white  and  foaming  down  the  steep  rock  face, 
where  it  makes  its  chief  leap  to  the  valley.  The 
summer  weather  held,  and  every  tree  and  fell-side 
stood  bathed  in  a  warm  haze,  suffused  with  the 
declining  light.  All  round,  encircling  fells  in  a  purple 
shadow;  to  the  north  and  east,  great  slopes  appear- 
ing— Helvellyn,  Grisedale,  Fairfield.  They  walked 
hand  in  hand  where  the  path  admitted — almost  si- 
lent— passionately  conscious  of  each  other — and  of 
the  beauty  round  them.  Sometimes  they  stopped  to 
gather  a  flower,  or  notice  a  bird;  and  then  there 
would  be  a  few  words,  with  a  meaning  only  for  them- 
selves. And  when  they  reached  the  tarn, — a  magical 
shadowed  mirror  of  brown  and  purple  water, — they 
sat  for  long  beside  it,  while  the  evening  faded,  and 
a  breathless  quiet  came  across  the  hills,  stilling  all 
their  voices,  even,  one  might  have  fancied,  the  voice 
of  the  hurrying  stream  itself.  At  the  back  of  Nelly's 
mind  there  was  always  the  same  inexorable  counting 


'MISSING'  75 

of  the  hours;  and  in  his  a  profound  and  sometimes 
remorseful  pity  for  this  gentle  creature  who  had 
given  herself  to  him,  together  with  an  immense 
gratitude. 

The  stars  came  out,  and  a  light  easterly  wind 
sprang  up,  sending  ripples  across  the  tarn,  and  stir- 
ring last  year's  leaves  among  the  new  grass.  It  had 
grown  chilly,  and  Sarratt  took  Nelly's  blue  cloak 
from  his  arm  and  wrapped  her  in  it — then  in  his 
arms,  as  she  rested  against  him.  Presently  he  felt 
her  hand  drop  languidly  from  his,  and  he  knew 
that — not  the  walk,  but  the  rush  of  those  half-spoken 
thoughts  which  held  them  both,  had  brought  exhaus- 
tion. 

'  Darling — we  must  go  home ! '  He  bent  over 
her. 

She  rose  feebly. 

'Why  am  I  so  tired?    It's  absurd.' 

1  Let  me  carry  you  a  little.' 

*  You  couldn't !  '    She  smiled  at  him. 

But  he  lifted  her  with  ease — she  was  so  small  and 
slight,  while  in  him  a  fresh  wave  of  youth  and 
strength  had  risen,  with  happiness,  and  the  reaction 
of  convalescence.  She  made  no  resistance,  and  he 
carried  her  down  some  way,  through  the  broad  min- 
gled light.  Her  face  was  hidden  on  his  breast,  and 
felt  the  beating  of  his  life.  She  said  to  herself  more 
than  once  that  to  die  so  would  be  bliss.  The  marvel 
of  love  bewildered  her.  *  What  was  I  like  before 
it? — what  shall  I  be,  when  he  is  gone?' 


76  'MISSING' 

When  she  made  him  set  her  down,  she  said  gaily 
that  she  was  all  right,  and  gave  him  a  kiss  of  thanks, 
simply,  like  a  child.  The  valley  lay  before  them 
with  its  scattered  lights,  and  they  pressed  on  through 
the  twilight — two  dim  and  spectral  figures — spirits  it 
seemed,  who  had  been  on  the  heights  sharing  am- 
brosial feasts  with  the  Immortals,  and  had  but  just 
descended  to  the  common  earth  again. 

Nelly  spent  the  next  three  days,  outside  their 
walks  and  boatings  on  the  lake,  in  whatever  wifely 
offices  to  her  man  still  remained  to  her — marking  his 
new  socks  and  khaki  shirts,  furnishing  a  small  medi- 
cine chest,  and  packing  a  tin  of  special  delicacies, 
meat  lozenges,  chocolate,  various  much  advertised 
food  tabloids,  and  his  favourite  biscuits.  Sarratt 
laughed  over  them,  but  had  not  the  heart  to  dis- 
suade her.  She  grew  paler  every  day,  but  was  always 
gay  and  smiling  so  long  as  his  eyes  were  on  her;  and 
his  sound  young  sleep  knew  nothing  of  her  quiet 
stifled  weeping  at  those  moments  of  the  night,  when 
the  bodily  and  nervous  forces  are  at  their  lowest,  and 
all  the  future  blackens.  Miss  Martin  paid  them  sev- 
eral visits,  bringing  them  books  and  flowers.  Books 
and  flowers  too  arrived  from  Carton — with  a  lavish 
supply  of  cigarettes  for  the  departing  soldier.  Nelly 
had  the  piteous  sense  that  everyone  was  sorry  for 
her — Mrs.  Weston,  the  kind  landlady,  Milly,  the 
little  housemaid.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes  that 
the  mere  strangers  she  met  in  the  road  knew  that 


'MISSING'  77 

George  was  going,  and  looked  at  her  compassion- 
ately. 

The  last  day  came,  showery  in  the  morning,  and 
clearing  to  a  glorious  evening,  with  all  the  new  leaf 
and  growing  hayfields  freshened  by  rain,  and  all  the 
streams  brimming.  Bridget  came  over  in  the  after- 
noon, and  as  she  watched  her  sister's  face,  became 
almost  kind,  almost  sympathetic.  George  proposed 
to  walk  back  part  of  the  way  to  Ambleside  with  his 
sister-in-law,  and  Nelly  with  a  little  frown  of  alarm 
watched  them  go. 

But  the  tete-a-tete  was  not  disagreeable  to  either. 
Bridget  was  taken  aback,  to  begin  with,  by  some 
very  liberal  proposals  of  Sarratt's  on  the  subject  of 
her  and  Nelly's  joint  expenses  during  his  absence. 
She  was  to  be  Nelly's  guest — they  both  wished  it — 
and  he  said  kindly  that  he  quite  understood  Nelly's 
marriage  had  made  a  difference  to  her,  and  he  hoped 
she  would  let  them  make  it  up  to  her,  as  far 
and  as  soon  as  they  could.  Bridget  was  surprised 
into  amiability, — and  Sarratt  found  a  chance  of 
saying — 

*  And  you'll  let  Nelly  talk  about  the  war — though 
it  does  bore  you?  She  won't  be  able  to  help  it — 
poor  child ! ' 

Bridget  supposed  that  now  she  too  would  have 
to  talk  about  the  war.  He  needn't  be  afraid,  she 
added  drily.  She  would  look  after  Nelly.  And  she 
looked  so  masterful  and  vigorous  as  she  said  it,  that 
Sarratt  could  only  believe  her. 


78  'MISSING' 

They  shook  hands  in  the  road,  better  friends  to 
all  seeming  than  they  had  been  yet.  And  Nelly 
received  George's  account  of  the  conversation  with  a 
sigh  of  relief. 

That  night  the  midsummer  moon  would  be  at  the 
full,  and  as  the  clouds  vanished  from  the  sky,  and  the 
soft  purple  night  came  down,  Nelly  and  Sarratt 
leaving  every  piece  of  luggage  behind  them,  packed, 
labelled,  locked,  and  piled  in  the  hall,  ready  for  the 
cart  that  was  to  call  for  it  in  the  early  hours — 
took  their  way  to  the  lake  and  the  boathouse. 
They  had  been  out  at  night  once  before,  but  this 
was  to  be  the  crowning  last  thing — the  last  joint 
memory. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  the  oars  dipped  into 
the  water,  and  as  they  neared  the  larger  island,  the 
moon,  rearing  its  bright  head  over  the  eastern  fells, 
shot  a  silver  pathway  through  the  lake ;  and  on  either 
side  of  the  pathway,  the  mirrored  woods  and  crags, 
more  dim  and  ghostly  than  by  day,  seemed  to  lead 
downward  to  that  very  threshold  and  entrance  of  the 
underworld,  through  which  the  blinded  Theban  king 
vanished  from  the  eyes  of  men.  Silver-bright  the 
woods  and  fell-side,  on  the  west;  while  on  the  east 
the  woods  in  shadow,  lay  sleeping,  *  moon-charmed.' 
The  air  was  balmy;  and  one  seemed  to  hear  through 
it  the  steady  soft  beat  of  the  summer  life,  rising 
through  the  leaves  and  grass  and  flowers.  Every 
sound  was  enchantment — the  drip  of  water  from  the 


'MISSING'  79 

oars,  the  hooting  of  an  owl  on  the  island,  even  the 
occasional  distant  voices,  and  tapping  of  horses'  feet 
on  the  main  road  bordering  the  lake. 

Sarratt  let  the  oars  drift,  and  the  boat  glided,  as 
though  of  its  own  will,  past  the  island,  and  into  the 
shadow  beyond  it.  Now  it  was  Silver  How,  and  all 
the  Grasmere  mountains,  that  caught  the  '  hallow- 
ing' light. 

Nelly  sat  bare-headed,  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
and  her  face  propped  in  her  hands.  She  was  in 
white,  with  a  white  shawl  round  her,  and  the  grace 
of  the  slight  form  and  dark  head  stirred  anew  in  Sar- 
ratt that  astonished  and  exquisite  sense  of  possession 
which  had  been  one  of  the  main  elements  of  con- 
sciousness, during  their  honeymoon.  Of  late  indeed 
it  had  been  increasingly  met  and  wrestled  with  by 
something  harsher  and  sterner;  by  the  instinct  of  the 
soldier,  of  the  fighting  man,  foreseeing  a  danger  to 
his  own  will,  a  weakening  of  the  fibre  on  which  his 
effort  and  his  power  depend.  There  were  moments 
when  passionately  as  he  loved  her,  he  was  glad  to  be 
going;  secretly  glad  that  the  days  which  were  in 
truth  a  greater  test  of  endurance  than  the  trenches 
were  coming  to  an  end.  He  must  be  able  to  trust 
himself  and  his  own  nerve  to  the  utmost.  Away 
from  her,  love  would  be  only  a  strengthening  power; 
here  beside  her,  soul  and  sense  contended. 

A  low  voice  came  out  of  the  shadow. 

4  George — I'm  not  going  with  you  to  the  station.' 


•So  'MISSING' 

*  Best  not,  dearest — much  best.' 

A  silence.    Then  the  voice  spoke  again. 

1  How  long  will  it  take  you,  George,  getting  to 
the  front?' 

'  About  twenty-four  hours  from  the  base,  per- 
haps more.  It's  a  weary  business.' 

*  Will  you  be  in  action  at  once  ?  ' 

*  I  think  so.    That  part  of  the  line's  very  short  of 
men.' 

'When  shall  I  hear?' 

He  laughed. 

1  By  every  possible  post,  I  should  think,  darling. 
You've  given  me  post-cards  enough.' 

And  he  tapped  his  breast-pocket,  where  lay  the 
little  writing-case  she  had  furnished  for  every  imagi- 
nable need. 

1  George ! ' 

1  Yes,  darling.' 

*  When  you're  tired,  you're — you're  not  to  write.' 
He  put  out  his  long  arms,  and  took  her  hands  in 

his. 

' 1  shan't  be  tired — and  I  shall  write.' 
She  looked  down  upon  the  hands  holding  hers. 
In  each  of  the  little  fingers  there  was  a  small  amus- 
ing deformity — a  slight  crook  or  twist — which,  as  is 
the  way  of  lovers,  was  especially  dear  to  her.  She 
remembered  once,  before  they  were  engaged,  flaming 
out  at  Bridget,  who  had  made  mock  of  it.  She 
stooped  now,  and  kissed  the  fingers.  Then  she 
bowed  her  forehead  upon  them. 


'MISSING'  81 

*  George ! ' — he  could  only  just  hear  her — *  I  know 
Miss    Martin   will   be   kind   to   me — and   I    shall 
find  plenty  to  do.     You're  never  to  worry  about 
me.' 

'  I  won't — so  long  as  you  write  to  me — every  day.' 
There  was  again  a  silence.    Then  she  lifted  her 
head,  and  as  the  boat  swung  out  of  the  shadow,  the 
moonlight  caught  her  face. 

'  You'll  take  that  Wordsworth  I  gave  you,  won't 
you,  George?  It'll  remind  you — of  this.'  Her  ges- 
ture showed  the  lake  and  the  mountains. 

*  Of  course,  I  shall  take  it.    I  shall  read  it  when- 
ever  I   can — perhaps   more    for  your   sake — than 
Wordsworth's.' 

'  It'll  make  us  remember  the  same  things,'  she 
murmured. 

'  As  if  we  wanted  anything  to  make  us  remember ! ' 

*  George !  '  her  voice  was  almost  a  sob — '  It's  been 
almost  too  perfect.    Sometimes — just  for  that — I'm 
afraid.' 

*  Don't  be,  darling.    The  God  we  believe  in  isn't 
a  jealous  God !    That's  one  of  the  notions  one  grows 
out  of — over  there.' 

'  Do  you  think  He's  our  friend,  George — that  He 
really  cares? ' 

The  sweet  appealing  voice  touched  him  unbear- 
ably. 

4  Yes,  I  do  think  it — '  he  said,  firmly,  after  a 
pause.  *  I  do  believe  it — with  all  my  heart.' 

'  Then  I'll  believe  it ! '  she  said,  with  a  long  breath ; 


82  'MISSING' 

and  there  was  silence  again,  till  suddenly  over  the 
water  came  the  sound  of  the  Rydal  Chapel  bell, 
striking  midnight.  Nelly  withdrew  her  hands  and 
sat  up. 

*  George,  we  must  go  home.    You  must  have  a 
good  night.' 

He  obeyed  her,  took  up  the  oars,  and  pulled 
swiftly  to  the  boathouse.  She  sat  in  a  kind  of  dream. 
It  was  all  over,  the  heavenly  time — all  done.  She 
had  had  the  very  best  of  life — could  it  ever  come 
again?  In  her  pain  and  her  longing  she  was 
strangely  conscious  of  growth  and  change.  The 
Nelly  of  three  weeks  back  seemed  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her  present  self,  to  be  another  human 
being  altogether. 

He  made  her  go  to  bed,  and  remained  in  the 
sitting-room  himself,  under  pretence  of  some  papers 
he  must  put  in  order.  When  the  sounds  in  the  next 
room  ceased,  and  he  knew  that  she  must  be  lying  still, 
waiting  for  him,  he  sat  down,  took  pen  and  paper, 
and  began  to  write  to  her — a  letter  to  be  given  to  her 
if  he  fell.  He  had  already  written  a  letter  of  busi- 
ness directions,  which  was  at  his  lawyer's.  This  was 
of  another  kind. 

*  MY  DARLING, — this  will  be  very  short.     It  is 
only  to  tell  you  that  if  I  fall — if  we  never  meet 
again,  after  to-morrow,  you  are  to  think  first  of  all 
— and  always — that  you  have  made  a  man  so  happy 
that  if  no  more  joy  can  come  to  him  on  earth,  he 
could  die  now — as  far  as  he  himself  fs  concerned — 


'MISSING'  83 

blessing  God  for  his  life.  I  never  imagined  that  love 
could  be  so  perfect.  You  have  taught  me.  God 
reward  you — God  watch  over  you.  If  I  die,  you  will 
be  very  sad — that  will  be  the  bitterness  to  me,  if  I 
have  time  to  know  it.  But  this  is  my  last  prayer  to 
you — to  be  comforted  by  this  remembrance — of  what 
you  have  done  for  me — what  you  have  been  to  me. 
And  in  time,  my  precious  one,  comfort  will  come. 
There  may  be  a  child — if  so,  you  will  love  it  for  us 
both.  But  if  not,  you  must  still  take  comfort.  You 
must  be  willing,  for  my  sake,  to  be  comforted.  And 
remember : — don't  be  angry  with  me,  darling — if  in 
years  to  come,  another  true  love,  and  another  home 
should  be  offered  you,  don't  refuse  them — Nelly! 
You  were  born  to  be  loved.  And  if  my  spirit  lives, 
and  understands,  what  could  it  feel  but  joy  that  your 
sorrow  was  healed — my  best  beloved ! 

*  This  will  be  given  to  you  only  if  I  die.  With  the 
deepest  gratitude  and  the  tenderest  love  that  a  man 
can  feel,  I  bid  you  good-bye — my  precious  wife — 
good-bye ! ' 

He  put  it  up  with  a  steady  hand,  and  addressed  it 
first  to  Nelly,  enclosing  it  in  a  larger  envelope  ad- 
dressed to  his  oldest  friend,  a  school-fellow,  who  had 
been  his  best  man  at  their  marriage.  Then  he  stole 
downstairs,  unlocked  the  front  door,  and  crossing  the 
road  in  the  moonlight,  he  put  the  letter  into  the  wall 
post-box  on  the  further  side.  And  before  re-entering 
the  house,  he  stood  a  minute  or  two  in  the  road,  let- 


84  'MISSING' 

ting  the  fresh  wind  from  the  fells  beat  upon  his  face, 
and  trying  the  while  to  stamp  on  memory  the 
little  white  house  where  Nelly  lay,  the  trees  over- 
hanging it,  the  mountain  tops  beyond  the  garden 
wall.  . 


CHAPTER  V 

'T  S  Mrs.  Sarratt  in?  '  asked  Miss  Martin  of  Mrs. 
Weston's  little  maid,  Milly. 

Milly  wore  a  look  of  animation,  as  of  one 
who  has  been  finding  the  world  interesting. 
4  She's  gone  a  walk — over  the  bridge,  Miss.' 
'  Has  she  had  news  of  Mr.  Sarratt?  ' 

*  Yes,  Miss,'  said  the  girl  eagerly.    *  He's  all  right. 
Mrs.  Sarratt  got  a  telegram  just  a  couple  of  hours 
ago.' 

'  And  you  think  I  shall  find  her  by  the  lake? ' 
Milly  thought  so.    Then  advancing  a  step,  she  said 
confidentially — 

*  She's  been  dreadfully  upset  this  two  days,  Miss. 
Not  that  she'd  say  anything.    But  she's  looked ' 

*  I  know.    I  saw  her  yesterday.' 

'  And  it's  been  a  job  to  get  her  to  eat  anything. 
Mrs.  Weston's  been  after  her  with  lots  of  things — 
tasty  you  know,  Miss — to  try  and  tempt  her.  But 
she  wouldn't  hardly  look  at  them.' 

1  Thank  you,  Milly ' — said  Miss  Martin,  after  a 
pause.  '  Well,  I'll  find  her.  Is  Miss  Cookson  here?  ' 

Milly's  candid  countenance  changed  at  once.  She 
frowned — it  might  have  been  said  she  scowled. 

'  She  came  the  day  Mr.  Sarratt  went  away,  Miss. 
Well  of  course  it's  not  my  place  to  speak,  Miss — 
85 


86  'MISSING' 

but  she  don't  do  Mrs.  Sarratt  no  good ! '  Miss  Mar- 
tin couldn't  help  a  smile — but  she  shook  her  head 
reprovingly  all  the  same,  as  she  hastened  away. 
Milly  had  been  in  her  Sunday-school  class,  and  they 
were  excellent  friends. 

Across  the  Rotha,  she  pursued  a  little  footpath 
leading  to  the  lakeside.  It  was  a  cold  day,  with 
flying  clouds  and  gleams  on  hill  and  water.  The 
bosom  of  Silver  How  held  depths  of  purple  shadow, 
but  there  were  lights  like  elves  at  play,  chasing  each 
other  along  the  Easedale  fells,  and  the  stony  side  of 
Nab  Scar. 

Beside  the  water,  on  a  rock,  sat  Nelly  Sarratt. 
An  open  telegram  and  a  bundle  of  letters  lay  on  her 
lap,  her  hands  loosely  folded  over  them.  She  was 
staring  at  the  water  and  the  hills,  with  absent  eyes, 
and  her  small  face  wore  an  expression — relaxed  and 
sweet — like  that  of  a  comforted  child,  which  touched 
Miss  Martin  profoundly. 

'So  you've  heard? — you  poor  thing!'  said  the 
elder  woman  smiling,  as  she  laid  a  friendly  hand  on 
the  girl's  shoulder. 

Nelly  looked  up — and  drew  a  long  deep  breath. 

1  He's  all  right,  and  the  battalion's  going  to  have 
three  weeks'  rest — behind  the  lines.' 

Her  dark  eyes  shone.  Hester  Martin  sat  down 
on  the  turf  beside  her. 

'  Capital !    When  did  you  hear  last?  ' 

'  Just  the  day  before  the  "  push."    Of  course  he 


'MISSING'  87 

couldn't  tell  me  anything — but  somehow  I  knew. 
And  then  the  papers  since — they're  pretty  ghastly,' 
said  Nelly,  with  a  faint  laugh  and  a  shiver.  '  The 
farm  under  the  hill  there  ' — she  pointed — *  you  know 
about  them  ?  ' 

*  Yes.    I  saw  them  after  the  telegram,'  said  Miss 
Martin,   sadly.     *  Of  course  it  was  the  only  son. 
These  small  families  are  too  awful.  Every  married 
woman  ought  to  have  six  sons ! ' 

Nelly  dropped  her  face  out  of  sight,  shading  it 
with  her  hands.  Presently  she  said,  in  a  dreamy 
voice  of  content — 

4 1  shall  get  a  letter  to-morrow.' 

*  How  do  you  know  ? ' 

Nelly  held  out  the  telegram,  which  said — 

*  All  safe.    Posted  letter  last  night.    Love.' 

*  It  can't  take  more  than  forty-eight  hours  to  come 
— can  it?'     Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  again  to  the 
distant  farm,  with  its  white  front  and  its  dark  patch 
of  yews. 

4 1  keep  thinking  of  their  telegram — '  she  said, 
slowly — '  and  then  of  mine.  Oh,  this  war  is  too  hor- 
rible! '  She  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  sudden  wild 
gesture,  and  then  let  one  of  them  drop  into  Hester 
Martin's  grasp.  '  In  George's  last  letter  he  told 
me  he  had  to  go  with  a  message  across  a  bit  of 
ground  that  was  being  shelled.  He  went  with  a  tele- 
phonist. He  crossed  first.  The  other  man  was  to 
wait  and  follow  him  after  an  interval.  George  got 
across,  then  the  man  with  the  telephone  wire  started, 


88  'MISSING' 

and  was  shot — just  as  he  reached  George.  He  fell 
into  George's  arms — and  died.  And  it  might  have 
been  George — it  might  have  been  George  just  as 
well !  It  might  be  George  any  day !  ' 

Miss  Martin  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  She  had 
no  ready-made  consolations — she  never  had.  Per- 
haps it  was  that  which  made  her  kind  wrinkled  face 
such  a  welcome  sight  to  those  in  trouble.  But  at  last 
she  said — 

'  It  is  all  we  women  can  do — to  be  patient — and 
hope — not  to  let  our  courage  go  down.' 

Nelly  shook  her  head. 

*  I  am  always  saying  that  to  myself — but !  when 
the  news  comes — if  it  comes — what  good  will  that  be 
to  me !    Oh,  I  haven't  been  idle — indeed  I  haven't,' 
she   added  piteously — *  I've   worked   myself   tired 
every  day — just  not  to  think !  ' 

'  I  know  you  have,'  Miss  Martin  pressed  the  hand 
in  hers.  '  Well,  now,  he'll  be  all  safe  for  a  fort- 
night  ' 

1  Perhaps  three  weeks,'  Nelly  corrected  her, 
eagerly.  Then  she  looked  round  at  her  new  friend, 
a  shy  smile  lighting  up  her  face,  and  bringing  back  its 
bloom. 

*  You  know  he  writes  to  me  nearly  every  day?  ' 

*  It's  the  way  people  have — war  or  no  war — when 
they're  in  love,'  said  Hester  Martin  drily.     '  And 
you — how  often  ?  ' 

'  Every  day.  I  haven't  missed  once.  How  could 
I? — when  he  wants  me  to  write — when  I  hear  so 


'MISSING1  89 

often ! '  And  her  free  hand  closed  possessively, 
greedily,  over  the  letters  in  her  lap. 

Hester  Martin  surveyed  her  thoughtfully. 

'  I  wouldn't  do  war-work  all  day,  if  I  were  you,' 
she  said  at  last.  '  Why  don't  you  go  on  with  your 
sketching?' 

'  I  was  going  to  try  this  very  afternoon.  Sir 
William  said  he  would  give  me  a  lesson,'  was  the 
listless  reply. 

4  He's  coming  here?' 

'  He  said  he  would  be  walking  this  way,  if  it  was 
fine,'  said  Nelly,  indifferently. 

Both  relapsed  into  silence.  Then  Miss  Martin 
enquired  after  Bridget.  The  face  beside  her  dark- 
ened a  little. 

'  She's  very  well.  She  knows  about  the  telegram. 
She  thought  I  was  a  great  goose  to  be  so  anxious. 
She's  making  an  index  now — for  the  book!  ' 

'  The  psychology  book?  ' 

'  Yes !  '  A  pause — then  Nelly  looked  round, 
flushing. 

'  I  can't  talk  to  Bridget  you  see — about  George — 
or  the  war.  She  just  thinks  the  world's  mad — that 
it's  six  to  one  and  half  a  dozen  to  the  other — that  it 
doesn't  matter  at  all  who  wins — so  long  of  course  as 
the  Germans  don't  come  here.  And  as  for  me,  if  I 
was  so  foolish  as  to  marry  a  soldier  in  the  middle  of 
the  war,  why  I  must  just  take  the  consequences — 
grin  and  bear  it!  ' 

Her  tone  and  look  showed  that  in  her  clinging 


90  'MISSING' 

way  she  had  begun  to  claim  the  woman  beside  her  as 
a  special  friend,  while  Hester  Martin's  manner 
towards  her  bore  witness  that  the  claim  excited  a 
warm  response — that  intimacy  and  affection  had  ad- 
vanced rapidly  since  George  Sarratt's  departure. 

4  Why  do  you  put  up  with  it?  '  said  Miss  Martin, 
sharply.  '  Couldn't  you  get  some  cousin — some 
friend  to  stay  with  you  ?  ' 

Nelly  shook  her  head.  *  George  wanted  me  to. 
But  I  told  him  I  couldn't.  It  would  mean  a  quarrel. 
I  could  never  quarrel  with  Bridget.' 

Miss  Martin  laughed  indignantly.  4  Why  not — if 
she  makes  you  miserable  ?  ' 

1 1  don't  know.  I  suppose  I'm  afraid  of  her. 
And  besides  ' — the  words  came  reluctantly — '  she 
does  a  lot  for  me.  I  ought  to  be  very  grateful ! ' 

Yes,  Hester  Martin  did  know  that,  in  a  sense, 
Bridget  did  '  a  lot '  for  her  younger  sisters.  It  was 
not  many  weeks  since  she  had  made  their  acquaint- 
ance, but  there  had  been  time  for  her  to  see  how 
curiously  dependent  young  Mrs.  Sarratt  was  on  Miss 
Cookson.  There  was  no  real  sympathy  between 
them;  nor  could  Miss  Martin  believe  that  there  was 
ever  much  sense  of  kinship.  But  whenever  there 
was  anything  to  be  done  involving  any  friction  with 
the  outside  world,  Bridget  was  ready  to  do  it,  while 
Nelly  invariably  shrank  from  it. 

For  instance,  some  rather  troublesome  legal  busi- 
ness connected  with  Nelly's  marriage,  and  the  re- 
investment of  a  small  sum  of  money,  had  descended 


'MISSING'  91 

on  the  young  wife  almost  immediately  after  George's 
departure.  She  could  hardly  bring  herself  to  look  at 
the  letter.  What  did  it  matter?  Let  their  trustee 
settle  it.  To  be  worrying  about  it  seemed  to  be  some- 
how taking  her  mind  from  George — to  be  breaking 
in  on  that  imaginative  vision  of  him,  and  his  life  in 
the  trenches,  which  while  it  tortured  her,  yet  filled 
the  blank  of  his  absence.  So  Bridget  did  it  all — 
corresponded  peremptorily  with  their  rather  old  and 
incompetent  trustee,  got  all  the  signatures  necessary 
out  of  Nelly,  and  carried  the  thing  through.  Again, 
on  another  and  smaller  occasion,  Miss  Martin  had 
seen  the  two  sisters  confronted  with  a  scandalous 
overcharge  for  the  carriage  of  some  heavy  luggage 
from  Manchester.  Nelly  was  aghast;  but  she  would 
have  paid  the  sum  demanded  like  a  lamb,  if  Bridget 
had  not  stepped  in — grappled  with  carter  and  rail- 
way company,  while  Nelly  looked  on,  helpless  but 
relieved. 

It  was  clear  that  Nelly's  inborn  wish  to  be  liked, 
her  quivering  responsiveness,  together  with  a  strong 
dose  of  natural  indolence,  made  her  hate  disagree- 
ment or  friction  of  any  kind.  She  was  always 
yielding — always  ready  to  give  in.  But  when 
Bridget  in  her  harsh  aggravating  way  fought  things 
out  and  won,  Nelly  was  indeed  often  made  miser- 
able, by  the  ricochet  of  the  wrath  roused  by  Bridget's 
methods  upon  herself;  but  she  generally  ended,  all 
the  same,  by  realising  that  Bridget  had  done  her  a 
service  which  she  could  not  have  done  for  herself. 


92  'MISSING' 

Hester  Martin  frankly  thought  the  sister  odious, 
and  pitied  the  bride  for  having  to  live  with  her.  All 
the  same  she  often  found  herself  wondering  how 
Nelly  would  ever  manage  the  practical  business  of 
life  alone,  supposing  loneliness  fell  to  her  at  any  time. 
But  why  should  it  fall  to  her? — unless  indeed  Sar- 
ratt  were  killed  in  action.  If  he  survived  the  war 
he  would  make  her  the  best  of  guides  and  husbands; 
she  would  have  children;  and  her  sweetness,  her  sen- 
sitiveness would  stiffen  under  the  impact  of  life  to  a 
serviceable  toughness.  But  meanwhile  what  could 
she  do — poor  little  Ariadne ! — but  *  live  and  be 
lovely  ' — sew  and  knit,  and  gather  sphagnum  moss — 
dreaming  half  her  time,  and  no  doubt  crying  half  the 
night.  What  dark  circles  already  round  the  beauti- 
ful eyes!  And  how  transparent  were  the  girl's 
delicate  hands!  Miss  Martin  felt  that  she  was 
watching  a  creature  on  whom  love  had  been  acting 
with  a  concentrated  and  stimulating  energy,  bringing 
the  whole  being  suddenly  and  rapidly  into  flower. 
And  now,  what  had  been  only  stimulus  and  warmth 
had  become  strain,  and,  sometimes,  anguish,  or  fear. 
The  poor  drooping  plant  could  with  difficulty  main- 
tain itself. 

For  the  moment  however,  Nelly,  in  her  vast  relief, 
was  ready  to  talk  and  think  of  quite  ordinary 
matters. 

'  Bridget  is  in  a  good  temper  with  me  to-day !  ' 
she  said  presently,  looking  with  a  smile  at  her  com- 
panion—' because — since  the  telegram  came — I  told 


'MISSING'  93 

her  I  would  accept  Miss  Farrell's  invitation  to  go 
and  spend  a  Sunday  with  them.' 

4  Well,  it  might  distract  you.  But  you  needn't 
expect  to  get  much  out  of  Cicely! ' 

The  old  face  lit  up  with  its  tolerant,  half-sarcastic 
smile. 

'  I  shall  be  dreadfully  afraid  of  her ! '  said  Nelly. 

'  No  need  to  be.  William  will  keep  her  in  order. 
She  is  a  foolish  woman,  Cicely,  and  her  own  worst 
enemy,  but — somehow  ' — The  speaker  paused.  She 
was  about  to  say — '  somehow  I  am  fond  of  her ' — 
when  she  suddenly  wondered  whether  the  remark 
would  be  true,  and  stopped  herself. 

*  I   think   she's  very — very  good-looking ' — said 
Nelly,   heartily.    *  Only,   why ' — she   hesitated,  but 
her  half-laughing  look  continued  the  sentence. 

*  Why  does  she  blacken  her  eyebrows,  and  paint 
her  lips,  and  powder  her  cheeks?    Is  that  what  you 
mean?' 

Nelly's  look  was  apologetic.  '  She  doesn't  really 
want  it,  does  she  ?  '  she  said  shyly,  as  though  remem- 
bering that  she  was  speaking  to  a  kinswoman  of  the 
person  discussed.  '  She  could  do  so  well  without  it.' 

'  No — to  be  quite  candid,  I  don't  think  she  would 
look  so  well  without  it.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  It 
seems  to  suit  her  to  be  made  up ! — though  everybody 
knows  it  is  make-up.' 

4  Of  course,  if  George  wanted  me  to  "  make  up," 
I  should  do  it  at  once,'  said  Nelly,  thoughtfully, 
propping  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and  staring  at  the 


94  'MISSING' 

lake.  *  But  he  hates  it.  Is — is  Miss  Farrell — ' 
she  looked  round — *  in  love  with  anybody?  ' 

Miss  Martin  laughed. 

*  I'll  leave  you  to  find  out — when  you  go  there. 
So  if  your  husband  liked  you  to  paint  and  powder, 
you  would  do  it  ?  ' 

The  older  woman  looked  curiously  at  her  com- 
panion. As  she  sat  there,  on  a  rock  above  the  lake, 
in  a  grey  nurse's  dress  with  a  nurse's  bonnet  tied 
under  her  chin,  Hester  Martin  conveyed  an  impres- 
sion of  rugged  and  unconscious  strength  which 
seemed  to  fuse  her  with  the  crag  behind  her.  She 
had  been  gathering  sphagnum  moss  on  the  fells 
almost  from  sunrise  that  morning;  and  by  tea-time 
she  was  expecting  a  dozen  munition-workers  from 
Barrow,  whom  she  was  to  house,  feed  and  *  do  for,' 
in  her  little  cottage  over  the  week-end.  In  the  inter- 
val, she  had  climbed  the  steep  path  to  that  white 
farm  where  death  had  just  entered,  and  having 
mourned  with  them  that  mourn,  she  had  come  now, 
as  naturally,  to  rejoice  with  Nelly  Sarratt. 

Nelly  considered  her  question,  but  not  in  any 
doubtfulness  of  mind. 

'  Indeed,  I  would,'  she  said,  decidedly.  *  Isn't  it 
my  duty  to  make  George  happy?  ' 

'  What  "  George  "  ?  If  Mr.  Sarratt  wanted  you 
to  paint  and  powder ' 

'He  wouldn't  be  the  "George"  I  married? 
There's  something  in  that! '  laughed  Nelly.  Then 
she  lifted  her  hand  to  shade  her  eyes  against  the 


'MISSING'  95 

westering  sun — 'Isn't  that  Sir  William  coming?' 

She  pointed  doubtfully  to  a  distant  figure  walking 
along  the  path  that  skirts  the  western  edge  of  the 
lake.  Miss  Martin  put  up  her  glasses. 

4  Certainly.  Coming  no  doubt  to  give  you  a  les- 
son. But  where  are  your  sketching  things  ? ' 

Nelly  rose  in  a  hurry. 

*  I  forgot  about  them  when  I  came  out.  The 

telegram '  She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes, 

with  a  long  breath. 

4  I'll  run  back  for  them.    Will  you  tell  him  ?  ' 

She  departed,  and  Hester  awaited  her  cousin. 
He  came  slowly  along  the  lake,  his  slight  lameness 
just  visible  in  his  gait — otherwise  a  splendid  figure 
of  a  man,  with  a  bare  head,  bearded  and  curled,  like 
a  Viking  in  a  drawing  by  William  Morris.  He  car- 
ried various  artist's  gear  slung  about  him,  and  an 
alpenstock.  His  thoughts  were  apparently  busy,  for 
he  came  within  a  few  yards  of  Hester  Martin,  be- 
fore he  saw  her. 

'  Hullo !  Hester — you  here  ?  I  came  to  get  some 
news  of  Mrs.  Sarratt  and  her  husband.  Is  he  all 
right?' 

Hester  repeated  the  telegram,  and  added  the 
information  that  seeing  him  coming,  Mrs.  Sarratt 
had  gone  in  search  of  her  sketching  things. 

'  Ah ! — I  thought  if  she'd  got  good  news  she 
might  like  to  begin,'  said  Farrell.  '  Poor  thing — 
she's  lucky !  Our  casualties  these  last  few  days  have 
been  awful,  and  the  gain  very  small.  Men  or  guns — 


96  'MISSING' 

that's  our  choice  just  now.  And  it  will  be  months 
before  we  get  the  guns.  So  practically,  there's  no 
choice.  Somebody  ought  to  be  hung ! ' 

He  sat  down  frowning.  But  his  face  soon  cleared, 
and  he  began  to  study  the  point  of  view. 

'  Nothing  to  be  made  of  it  but  a  picture  post- 
card,' he  declared.  *  However  I  daresay  she'll  want 
to  try  it.  They  always  do — the  beginners.  The 
more  ambitious  and  impossible  the  thing,  the  better.' 

'  Why  don't  you  teach  her  ? '  said  Hester,  severely. 

Farrell  laughed. 

'  Why  I  only  want  to  amuse  her,  poor  little  soul ! ' 
he  said,  as  he  put  his  easel  together.  *  Why  should 
she  take  it  seriously?' 

1  She's  more  intelligence  than  you  think.' 

'Has  she?  What  a  pity!  There  are  so  many 
intelligent  people  in  the  world,  and  so  few  pretty 
ones.' 

He  spoke  with  a  flippant  self-confidence  that  an- 
noyed his  cousin.  But  she  knew  very  well  that  she 
was  poorly  off  in  the  gifts  that  were  required  to 
scourge  him.  And  there  already  was  the  light  form 
of  Nelly,  on  the  footbridge  over  the  river.  Farrell 
looked  up  and  saw  her  coming. 

'  Extraordinary — the  grace  of  the  little  thing! '  he 
sr.id,  half  to  himself,  half  to  Hester.  *  And  she 
knows  nothing  about  it — or  seems  to.' 

*  Do  you  imagine  that  her  husband  hasn't  told 
her?'  Hester's  tone  was  mocking. 

Farrell  looked  up  in  wonder. 


'MISSING'  97 

*  Sarratt?  of  course  he  has — so  far  as  he  has  eyes 
to  see  it.  But  he  has  no  idea  how  remarkable  it  is.' 

'What?    His  wife's  beauty?    Nonsense!' 

'How  could  he?  It  wants  a  trained  eye,'  said 
Farrell,  quite  serious.  '  Hush ! — here  she  comes.' 

Nelly  came  up  breathlessly,  laden  with  her  own 
paraphernalia.  Farrell  at  once  perceived  that  she 
was  pale  and  hollow-eyed.  But  her  expression  was 
radiant. 

'  How  kind  of  you  to  come ! '  she  said,  looking 
up  at  him.  '  You  know  I've  had  good  news — splen- 
did news?' 

'  I  do  indeed.  I  came  to  ask,'  he  said  gravely. 
'  He's  out  of  it  for  a  bit? ' 

'  Yes,  for  three  weeks !  ' 

'  So  you  can  take  a  rest  from  worrying? ' 

She  nodded  brightly,  but  she  was  not  yet  quite 
mistress  of  her  nerves,  and  her  face  quivered.  He 
turned  away,  and  began  to  set  his  palette,  while  she 
seated  herself. 

Hester  watched  the  lesson  for  half  an  hour,  till  it 
was  time  to  go  and  make  ready  for  her  munition- 
workers.  And  she  watched  it  with  increasing  pleas- 
ure, and  increasing  scorn  of  a  certain  recurrent  un- 
easiness she  had  not  been  able  to  get  rid  of.  Nothing 
could  have  been  better  than  Farrell's  manner  to 
Ariadne.  It  was  friendly,  chivalrous,  respectful — 
all  it  should  be — with  a  note  of  protection,  of  un- 
spoken sympathy,  which,  coming  from  a  man  nearly 
twenty  years  older  than  the  little  lady  herself,  was 


98  'MISSING' 

both  natural  and  attractive.  He  made  an  excellent 
teacher  besides,  handling  her  efforts  with  a  mixture 
of  criticism  and  praise,  which  presently  roused 
Nelly's  ambition,  and  kindled  her  cheeks  and  eyes. 
Time  flew  and  when  Hester  Martin  rose  to  leave 
them,  Nelly  cried  out  in  protest — '  It  can't  be  five 
o'clock!' 

'  A  quarter  to — just  time  to  get  home  before  my 
girls  arrive !  * 

'  Oh,  and  I  must  go  too,'  said  Nelly  regretfully. 
'  I  promised  Bridget  I  would  be  in  for  tea.  But  I 
was  getting  on — wasn't  I  ?  '  She  turned  to  Farrell. 

'  Swimmingly.  But  you've  only  just  begun.  Next 
time  the  sitting  must  be  longer.' 

*  Will  you — will  you  come  in  to  tea  ?  ' — she  asked 
him  shyly.  *  My  sister  would  be  very  glad.' 

'  Many  thanks — but  I'  am  afraid  I  can't.  I  shall 
be  motoring  back  to  Carton  to-night.  To-morrow  is 
one  of  my  hospital  days.  I  told  you  how  I  divided 
my  week,  and  salved  my  conscience.' 

He  smiled  down  upon  her  from  his  great  height, 
his  reddish  gold  hair  and  beard  blown  by  the  wind, 
and  she  seemed  to  realise  him  as  a  great,  manly, 
favouring  presence,  who  made  her  feel  at  ease. 

Hester  Martin  had  already  vanished  over  the 
bridge,  and  Farrell  and  Nelly  strolled  back  more 
leisurely  towards  the  lodgings,  he  carrying  her  can- 
vas sketching  bag. 

On  the  way  she  conveyed  to  him  her  own  and 
Bridget's  acceptance  of  the  Carton  invitation. 


'MISSING'  99 

'  If  Miss  Farrell  won't  mind  our  clothes — or 
rather  our  lack  of  them !  I  did  mean  to  have  my 
wedding  dress  altered  into  an  evening  dress — 
but! ' 

She  lifted  her  hand  and  let  it  fall,  in  a  sad  signifi- 
cant gesture  which  pleased  his  fastidious  eye. 

*  You  hadn't  even  the  time  of  the  heart  for  it? 
I  should  think  not !  '  he  said  warmly.    '  Who  cares 
about  dress  nowadays?' 

'  Your  sister ! '  thought  Nelly — but  aloud  she 
said — 

4  Well  then  we'll  come — we'll  be  delighted  to 
come.  May  I  see  the  hospital?' 

*  Of  course.    It's  like  any  other  hospital.' 

'Is  it  very  full  now?'  she  asked  him  uneasily, 
her  bright  look  clouding. 

*  Yes — but  it  ebbs  and  flows.     Sometimes  for  a 
day  or  two  all  our  men  depart.    Then  there  is  a  great 
rush.' 

1  Are  they  bad  cases?' 

There  was  an  unwilling  insistence  in  her  voice,  as 
though  her  mind  dealt  with  images  it  would  gladly 
have  put  away,  but  could  not. 

*  A  good  many  of  them.     They  send  them  us  as 
straight  as  they  can  from  the  front.     But  the  sur- 
geons are  wonderfully  skilful.    It's  simply  marvelous 
what  they  can  do.' 

He  seemed  to  see  a  shiver  pass  through  her  slight 
shoulders,  and  he  changed  the  subject  at  once.  The 
Carton  motor  should  come  for  her  and  her  sister,  he 


ioo  'MISSING' 

said,  whenever  they  liked,  the  following  Saturday 
afternoon.  The  run  would  take  about  an  hour. 
Meanwhile — 

*  Do  you  want  any  more  books  or  magazines?  '  he 
asked  her  smiling,  with  the  look  of  one  only  eager  to 
be  told  how  to  serve  her.  They  had  paused  in  the 
road  outside  the  lodgings. 

'  Oh !  how  could  we  !  You  sent  us  such  a  bundle ! ' 
cried  Nelly  gratefully.  '  We  are  always  finding 
something  new  in  it.  It  makes  the  evenings  so  dif- 
ferent. We  will  bring  them  back  when  we  come.' 

'  Don't  hurry.  And  go  on  with  the  drawing.  I 
shall  expect  to  see  it  a  great  deal  further  on  next 
time.  It's  all  right  so  far.' 

He  went  his  way  back,  speedily,  taking  a  short 
cut  over  Loughrigg  to  his  cottage.  His  thoughts, 
as  he  climbed,  were  very  full  of  Mrs.  Sarratt.  But 
they  were  the  thoughts  of  an  artist — of  a  man  who 
had  studied  beauty,  and  the  European  tradition  of 
beauty,  whether  in  form  or  landscape,  for  many 
years;  who  had  worked — a  contre  cosur — in  a  Paris 
studio,  and  had  copied  Tintoret — fervently — in 
Venice;  who  had  been  a  collector  of  most  things, 
from  Tanagra  figures  to  Delia  Robbias.  She  made 
an  impression  upon  him  in  her  lightness  and  grace, 
her  small  proportions,  her  lissomness  of  outline, 
very  like  that  of  a  Tanagra  figure.  How  had  she 
come  to  spring  from  Manchester?  What  kindred 
had  she  with  the  smoke  and  grime  of  a  great  business 
city?  He  fell  into  amused  speculation.  Manchester 


'MISSING'  101 

has  always  possessed  colonies  of  Greek  merchants. 
Somewhere  in  the  past  was  there  some  strain  of 
southern  blood  which  might  account  for  her?  He 
remembered  a  beautiful  Greek  girl  at  an  Oxford 
Commemoration,  when  he  had  last  attended  that 
function;  the  daughter  of  a  Greek  financier  settled 
in  London,  whose  still  lovely  mother  had  been  drawn 
and  painted  interminably  by  the  Burne  Jones  and 
William  Morris  group  of  artists.  She  was  on  a 
larger  scale  than  Mrs.  Sarratt,  but  the  colour  of  the 
flesh  was  the  same — as  though  light  shone  through 
alabaster — and  the  sweetness  of  the  deep-set  eyes. 
Moreover  she  had  produced  much  the  same  effect  on 
the  bystander,  as  of  a  child  of  nature,  a  creature  of 
impulse  and  passion — passion,  clinging  and  self- 
devoted,  not  fierce  and  possessive — through  all  the 
more  superficial  suggestions  of  reticence  and  self- 
control.  '  This  little  creature  is  only  at  the  begin- 
ning of  her  life  ' — he  thought,  with  a  kind  of  pity 
for  her  very  softness  and  exquisiteness.  *  What  the 
deuce  will  she  have  made  of  it,  by  the  end?  Why 
should  such  beings  grow  old?' 

His  interest  in  her  led  him  gradually  to  other 
thoughts — partly  disagreeable,  partly  philosophical. 
He  had  once — and  only  once — found  himself  in- 
volved in  a  serious  love-affair,  which,  as  it  had  left 
him  a  bachelor,  had  clearly  come  to  no  good.  It 
was  with  a  woman  much  older  than  himself — gifted 
— more  or  less  famous — a  kind  of  modern  Corinne 
whom  he  had  met  for  a  month  in  Rome  in  his  first 


102  'MISSING' 

youth.  Corinne  had  laid  siege  to  him,  and  he  had 
eagerly,  whole-heartedly  succumbed.  He  saw  him- 
self, looking  back,  as  the  typically  befooled  and 
bamboozled  mortal;  for  Corinne,  in  the  end,  had 
thrown  him  over  for  a  German  professor,  who  ad- 
mired her  books  and  had  a  villa  on  the  Janiculum. 
During  the  eighteen  years  which  had  elapsed  since 
their  adventure,  he  had  quite  made  it  up  with  her, 
and  had  often  called  at  the  Janiculan  villa,  with  its 
antiques,  its  window  to  the  view,  and  the  great  Judas 
tree  between  it  and  Rome.  His  sense  of  escape — 
which  grew  upon  him — was  always  tempered  by  a 
keen  respect  for  the  lady's  disinterestedness,  and 
those  high  ideals  which  must  have  led  her — for  what 
else  could? — to  prefer  the  German  professor,  who 
had  so  soon  become  decrepit,  to  himself.  But  the 
result  of  it  all  had  been  that  the  period  of  highest 
susceptibility  and  effervescence  had  passed  by,  leav- 
ing him  still  unmarried.  Since  then  he  had  had  many 
women-friends,  following  harmlessly  a  score  of 
'  chance  desires ' !  But  he  had  never  wanted  to 
marry  anybody;  and  the  idea  of  surrendering  the 
solitude  and  independence  of  his  pleasant  existence 
had  now  become  distasteful  to  him.  Renan  in  some 
late  book  speaks  of  his  life  as  *  cette  charmante 
promenade  a  travers  la  realite.'  Farrell  could  have 
adopted  much  the  same  words  about  his  own — until 
the  war.  The  war  had  made  him  think  a  good  deal, 
like  Sarratt;  though  the  thoughts  of  a  much  travelled, 
epicurean  man  of  the  world  were  naturally  very  dif- 


'MISSING'  103 

ferent  from  those  of  the  young  soldier.  At  least 
'  the  surge  and  thunder '  of  the  struggle  had  de- 
veloped in  Farrell  a  new  sensitiveness,  a  new  unrest, 
as  though  youth  had  returned  upon  him.  The  easy, 
drifting  days  of  life  before  the  catastrophe  were 
gone.  The  *  promenade  '  was  no  longer  charming. 
But  the  jagged  and  broken  landscape  through  which 
it  was  now  taking  him,  held  him  often — like  so  many 
others — breathless  with  strange  awes,  strange  ques- 
tionings. And  all  the  more,  because,  owing  to  his 
physical  infirmity,  he  must  be  perforce  a  watcher,  a 
discontented  watcher,  rather  than  an  actor,  in  the 
great  scene. 

That  night  Nelly,  sitting  at  her  open  window,  with 
starlight  on  the  lake,  and  the  cluster  rose  sending  its 
heavy  scent  into  the  room — wrote  to  her  husband. 

1  My  darling — it  is  just  a  little  more  than  eight 
hours  since  I  got  your  telegram.  Sometimes  it 
seems  like  nothing — and  then  like  days — days  of 
happiness.  I  was  'very  anxious.  But  I  know  I 
oughtn't  to  write  about  that.  You  say  it  helps  you 
if  I  keep  cheerful,  and  always  expect  the  best  and 
not  the  worst.  Indeed,  George,  I  do  keep  cheerful. 
Ask  Miss  Martin — ask  Bridget ' 

At  this  point  two  splashes  fell,  luckily  not  on  the 
letter,  but  on  the  blotting  paper  beside  it,  and  Nelly 
hastily  lifted  her  handkerchief  to  dry  a  pair  of  swim- 
ming eyes. 

'  But  he  can't  see — he  won't  know ! '  she  thought, 


104  'MISSING' 

apologising  to  herself;  yet  wrestling  at  the  same  time 
with  the  sharp  temptation  to  tell  him  exactly  how  she 
had  suffered,  that  he  might  comfort  her.  But  she 
repelled  it.  Her  moral  sense  told  her  that  she  ought 
to  be  sustaining  and  strengthening  him — rather  than 
be  hanging  upon  him  the  burden  of  her  own  fears 
and  agonies. 

She  went  on  bravely — 

1  Of  course,  after  the  news  in  the  paper  this  morn- 
ing,— and  yesterday — I  was  worried  till  I  heard.  I 
knew — at  any  rate  I  guessed — you  must  have  been  in 
it  all.  And  now  you  are  safe,  my  own  own! — for 
three  whole  blessed  weeks.  Oh,  how  well  I  shall 
sleep  all  that  time — and  how  much  work  I  shall  do ! 
But  it  won't  be  all  war-work.  Sir  William  Farrell 
came  over  to-day,  and  showed  me  how  to  begin  a 
drawing  of  the  lake.  I  shall  finish  it  for  your  birth- 
day, darling.  Of  course  you  won't  want  to  be 
bothered  with  it  out  there.  I  shall  keep  it  till  you 
come.  The  lake  is  so  beautiful  to-night,  George.  It 
is  warmer  again,  and  the  stars  are  all  out.  The 
mountains  are  so  blue  and  quiet — the  water  so  still. 
But  for  the  owls,  everything  seems  asleep.  But  they 
call  and  call — and  the  echo  goes  round  the  lake.  I 
can  just  see  the  island,  and  the  rocks  round  which 
the  boat  drifted — that  last  night.  How  good  you 
were  to  me — how  I  loved  to  sit  and  look  at  you,  with 
the  light  on  your  dear  face — and  the  oars  hanging — 
and  the  shining  water 

1  And  then  I  think  of  where  you  are — and  what 


'MISSING'  105 

you  have  been  seeing  in  that  awful  fighting.  But 
not  for  long.  I  try  to  put  it  away. 

'  George,  darling ! — you  know  what  you  said  when 
you  went  away — what  you  hoped  might  come — to 
make  us  both  happy — and  take  my  thoughts  off  the 
war?  But,  dear,  it  isn't  so — you  mustn't  hope  it 
I  shall  be  dreadfully  sorry  if  you  are  disappointed. 
But  you'll  only  find  me — your  own  Nelly — not 
changed  a  bit — when  you  come  back. 

*  I  want  to  hear  everything  when  you  write — how 
your  men  did — whether  you  took  any  prisoners, 
whether  there  was  ammunition  enough,  or  whether 
you  were  short  again?  I  feel  every  day  that  I  ought 
to  go  and  make  munitions — but  somehow — I  can't. 
We  are  going  to  Carton  on  Saturday.  Bridget  is 
extremely  pleased.  I  rather  dread  it.  But  I  shall 
be  able  to  write  you  a  long  letter  about  it  on  Sunday 
morning,  instead  of  going  to  church.  There  is  Rydal 
chapel  striking  twelve !  My  darling — my  darling ! — 
good-night.' 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  following  Saturday  afternoon,  at  three 
o'clock,  the  Carton  motor  duly  arrived  at  the 
Rydal  cottage  door.  It  was  a  hot  summer 
day,  the  mountains  colourless  and  small  under  their 
haze  of  heat,  the  woods  darkening  already  towards 
the  August  monotony,  the  streams  low  and  shrunken. 
Lakeland  was  at  the  moment  when  the  artists  who 
haunt  her  would  rather  not  paint  her,  remembering 
the  subtleties  of  spring,  and  looking  forward  to  the 
pageantry  of  autumn.  But  for  the  eye  that  loves  her 
she  has  beauties  enough  at  any  time,  and  no  blanch- 
ing heat  and  dust  can  spoil  the  lovely  or  delicate 
things  that  lie  waiting  in  the  shade  of  her  climbing 
oak-woods  or  on  her  bare  fells,  or  beside  her  still 
lakes. 

Nelly  took  her  seat  in  the  landaulette,  with  Bridget 
beside  her.  Milly  and  Mrs.  Weston  admiringly 
watched  their  departure  from  the  doorway  of  the 
lodgings,  and  they  were  soon  speeding  towards  Gras- 
mere  and  Dunmail  Raise.  Nelly's  fresh  white  dress, 
aided  by  the  blue  coat  and  shady  hat  which  George 
had  thought  so  ravishing,  became  her  well;  and  she 
was  girlishly  and  happily  aware  of  it.  Her  spirits 
were  high,  for  there  in  the  little  handbag  on  her 
wrist  lay  George's  last  letter,  received  that  morning, 

106 


'MISSING'  107 

short  and  hurried,  written  just  to  catch  the  post,  on 
his  arrival  at  the  rest  camp,  thirty  miles  behind  the 
line.  Heart-ache  and  fear,  if  every  now  and  then 
their  black  wings  brushed  her,  and  far  within,  a 
nerve  quivered,  were  mostly  quite  forgotten.  Youth, 
the  joy  of  being  loved,  the  joy  of  mere  living,  re- 
claimed her. 

Bridget  beside  her,  in  a  dark  blue  cotton,  with  a 
very  fashionable  hat,  looked  more  than  her  thirty 
years,  and  might  almost  have  been  taken  for  Nelly's 
mother.  She  sat  erect,  her  thin  straight  shoulders 
carrying  her  powerful  head  and  determined  face; 
and  she  noticed  many  things  that  quite  escaped  her 
sister:  the  luxury  of  the  motor  for  instance;  the 
details  of  the  Farrell  livery  worn  by  the  two  dis- 
charged soldiers  who  sat  in  front  as  chauffeur  and 
footman;  and  the  evident  fact  that  while  small  folk 
must  go  without  servants,  the  rich  seemed  to  have 
no  difficulty  in  getting  as  many  as  they  wanted. 

'  I  wonder  what  this  motor  cost? '  she  said  pres- 
ently in  a  speculative  tone,  as  they  sped  past  the 
turn  to  Grasmere  church  and  began  to  ascend  the 
pass  leading  to  Keswick. 

'Well,  we  know — about — don't  we?'  said  Nelly 
vaguely.  And  she  guessed  a  sum,  at  which  Bridget 
looked  contemptuous. 

'  More  than  that,  my  dear!  However  of  course 
it  doesn't  matter  to  them.' 

*  Don't  you  think  people  look  at  us  sometimes, 
as  though  we  were  doing  something  wrong?  '  said 


io8  'MISSING' 

Nelly  uneasily.  They  had  just  passed  two  old 
labourers — fine  patriarchal  fellows  who  had  paused 
a  moment  to  gaze  at  the  motor  and  the  two  ladies. 

*  I  suppose  it's  because — because  we  look  so  smart.' 

1  Well,  why  shouldn't  we?' 

*  Because  it's  war-time  I  suppose,'  said  Nelly 
slowly — '  and  perhaps  their  sons  are  fighting ' 

'We're  not  fighting!  ' 

'  No — but .'  With  a  slight  frown,  Nelly  tried 

to  express  herself.  '  It  looks  as  if  we  were  just  liv- 
ing as  usual,  while — Oh,  you  know,  Bridget,  what 
people  think! — how  everybody's  trying  not  to  spend 
money  on  themselves.' 

'Are  they?'  Bridget  laughed  aloud.  'Look  at 
all  the  dress  advertisements  in  the  papers.  Why, 
yesterday,  when  I  was  having  tea  with  those  people 
at  Windermere,  there  was  a  man  there  telling  lots 
of  interesting  things.  He  said  he  knew  some  great 
merchants  in  the  city,  who  had  spent  thousands  and 
thousands  on  furs — expensive  furs — the  summer  be- 
fore the  war.  And  they  thought  they'd  all  have  been 
left  on  their  hands,  that  they'd  have  lost  heavily. 
And  instead  of  that  they  sold  them  all,  and  made  a 
real  big  profit! ' 

Bridget  turned  an  almost  triumphant  look  on  her 
sister,  as  though  the  coup  described  had  been  her 
own. 

'  Well,  it  isn't  right ! '  said  Nelly,  passionately. 

*  It  isn't — it  isn't — Bridget !    When  the  war's  costing 
so  much — and  people  are  suffering  and  dying ' 


'MISSING'  109 

*  Oh,  I  know !  '  said  Bridget  hastily.    '  You  needn't 
preach  to  me  my  dear  child.    I  only  wanted  you  to 
look   at  facts.    You're   always  so   incurably   senti- 
mental ! ' 

*  I'm   not ! '    Nelly   protested,    helplessly.      '  We 
make  the  facts.    If  nobody  bought  the  furs,  the  facts 
would  be  different.    George  says  it's  wicked  to  squan- 
der money,  and  live  as  if  everything  were  just  the 
same  as  it  used  to  be.    And  I  agree  with  him! ' 

1  Of  course  you  do ! '  laughed  Bridget.  '  You 
don't  squander  money,  my  dear ! ' 

'  Only  because  I  haven't  got  it  to  spend,  you 
mean  ?  '  said  Nelly,  flushing. 

4  No — but  you  should  look  at  things  sensibly.  The 
people  who  are  making  money  are  spending  it — 
oceans  of  it !  And  the  people  who  have  money,  like 
the  Farrells,  are  spending  it  too.  Wait  till  you  see 
how  they  live  1 ' 

4  But  there's  the  hospital ! '  cried  Nelly. 

Bridget  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

4  That's  because  they  can  afford  to  give  the  hos- 
pital, and  have  the  motor-cars  too.  If  they  had  to 
choose  between  hospitals  and  motor-cars ! ' 

4  Lots  of  people  do ! ' 

4  You  think  Sir  William  Farrell  looks  like  doing 
without  things?'  said  Bridget,  provokingly.  Then 
she  checked  herself.  4  Of  course  I  like  Sir  William 
very  much.  But  then  /  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't 
have  motor-cars  or  any  other  nice  thing  he  wants.' 

4  That's  because — you  don't  think  enough — you 


no  'MISSING' 

never  think  enough — about  the  war ! '  said  Nelly, 
insistently. 

Bridget's  look  darkened. 

'  I  would  stop  the  war  to-morrow — I  would  make 
peace  to-morrow — if  I  could — you  know  I  would.  It 
will  destroy  us  all — ruin  us  all.  It's  sheer,  stark 
lunacy.  There,  you  know  what  I  think! ' 

'I  don't  see  what  it's  ever  cost  you,  Bridget!' 
said  Nelly,  breathing  fast. 

*  Oh,  well,  it's  very  easy  to  say  that — but  it  isn't 
argument.' 

Bridget's  deep-set  penetrating  eyes  glittered  as  she 
turned  them  on  her  sister.  *  However,  for  goodness' 
sake,  don't  let's  quarrel  about  it.  It's  a  lovely  day,  and 
we  don't  often  have  a  motor  like  this  to  drive  in ! ' 

The  speaker  leant  back,  giving  herself  up  to  the 
sensuous  pleasure  of  the  perfectly  hung  car,  and  the 
rapid  movement  through  the  summer  air.  Wythburn 
and  Thirlmere  were  soon  passed;  leaving  them  just 
time  to  notice  the  wrack  and  ruin  which  Manchester 
has  made  of  the  once  lovely  shore  of  Thirlmere, 
where  hideous  stretches  of  brown  mud,  and  the  ruins 
of  long  submerged  walls  and  dwellings,  reappear 
with  every  dry  summer  to  fling  reproach  in  the  face 
of  the  destroyer. 

Now  they  were  on  the  high  ground  above  Kes- 
wick;  and  to  the  west  and  north  rose  a  superb  con- 
fusion of  mountain-forms,  peaked  and  rounded  and 
cragged,  with  water  shining  among  them,  and  the 
silver  cloud  wreaths  looped  and  threaded  through 


'MISSING'  in 

the  valleys,  leaving  the  blue  or  purple  tops  suspended, 
high  in  air,  unearthly  and  alone,  to  parley  with  the 
setting  sun.  Not  yet  setting  indeed — but  already 
flooding  the  west  with  a  glory  in  which  the  further 
peaks  had  disappeared — burnt  away;  a  shining  holo- 
caust to  the  Gods  of  Light  and  Fire. 

Then  a  sharp  descent,  a  run  through  Keswick, 
another  and  a  tamer  lake,  a  sinking  of  the  mountain- 
forms,  and  they  were  nearing  the  woods  of  Carton. 
Both  sisters  had  been  silent  for  some  time.  Nelly 
was  wrapt  in  thoughts  of  George.  Would  he  get 
leave  before  Christmas?  Suppose  he  were  wounded 
slightly — just  a  wound  that  would  send  him  home, 
and  let  her  nurse  him? — a  wound  from  which  he 
would  be  sure  to  get  well — not  too  quickly!  She 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  wish  it — to  pray  for 
it — it  seemed  like  tempting  Providence.  But  how 
she  had  envied  a  young  couple  whom  she  sometimes 
met  walking  on  the  Ambleside  road ! — a  young  pri- 
vate of  one  of  the  Border  regiments,  with  a  bandaged 
arm,  and  his  sweetheart.  Once — with  that  new  free- 
masonry which  the  war  has  brought  about,  she  had 
stopped  to  speak  to  them.  The  boy  had  been  quite 
ready  to  talk  about  his  wound.  It  had  seemed  noth- 
ing at  first — just  a  fragment  of  shrapnel — he  had 
scarcely  known  he  was  hit.  But  abscess  after  abscess 
had  formed — a  leading  nerve  had  been  injured — it 
might  be  months  before  he  could  use  it  again.  And 
meanwhile  the  plain  but  bright-faced  girl  beside  him 
was  watching  over  him;  he  lodged  with  her  parents 


ii2  'MISSING' 

as  his  own  were  dead;  and  they  were  to  be  married 
soon.  No  chance  of  his  going  out  again !  The  girl's 
father  would  give  him  work  in  his  garage.  They 
had  the  air  of  persons  escaped  from  shipwreck  and 
ashamed  almost  of  their  own  secret  happiness,  while 
others  were  still  battling  with  and  sinking  in  the 
waves. 

A  flowery  lodge,  a  long  drive  through  green 
stretches  of  park,  with  a  heatfier  fell  for  background 
— and  then  the  motor,  leaving  to  one  side  a  huge 
domed  pile  with  the  Union  Jack  floating  above  it, 
ran  through  a  wood,  and  drew  up  in  front  of  Carton 
Cottage,  a  low  building  on  the  steps  of  which  stood 
Sir  William  Farrell. 

'  Delighted  to  see  you !  Come  in,  and  let 
Cicely  give  you  some  tea.  They'll  see  to  your 
luggage ! ' 

He  led  in  Nelly,  and  Bridget  followed,  glancing 
from  side  to  side,  with  an  eye  shrewdly  eager,  an  eye 
that  took  in  and  appraised  all  it  saw.  A  cottage 
indeed !  It  had  been  built  by  Sir  William's  father, 
for  his  only  sister,  a  maiden  lady,  to  whom  he  was 
much  attached.  'Aunt  Sophy'  had  insisted  on  a 
house  to  herself,  being  a  person  of  some  ruggedness 
and  eccentricity  of  character  and  averse  to  any  sort 
of  dependence  on  other  people's  ways  and  habits. 
But  she  had  allowed  her  brother  to  build  and  furnish 
the  cottage  for  her  as  lavishly  as  he  pleased,  and 
during  his  long  widowhood  she  had  been  of  much 


'MISSING'  113 

help  to  him  in  the  management  of  the  huge  house- 
hold at  Carton  Hall,  and  in  the  bringing  up  of  his 
two  children.  After  her  death,  the  house  had  re- 
mained empty  for  some  time,  till,  six  months  after 
the  outbreak  of  war,  Farrell  had  handed  over  the 
Hall  to  the  War  Office,  and  he  and  his  sister  had 
migrated  to  the  smaller  house. 

Bridget  was  aware,  as  she  followed  her  sister,  of 
rooms  small  but  numerous  opening  out  on  many 
sides,  of  long  corridors  with  glistening  teak  floors,  of 
windows  open  to  a  garden  ablaze  with  roses.  Sir 
William  led  them  to  what  seemed  a  buzz  of  voices, 
and  opened  a  door. 

Cicely  Farrell  rose  languidly  from  a  table  sur- 
rounded by  laughing  young  men,  and  advanced  to 
meet  the  newcomers.  Nelly  found  herself  shaking 
hands  with  the  Captain  Marsworth  she  had  seen  at 
Loughrigg  Tarn,  and  being  introduced  by  Sir  Wil- 
liam to  various  young  officers,  some  in  khaki, 
visitants  from  a  neighbouring  camp,  and  some  from 
the  Hall,  in  various  forms  of  convalescent  undress, 
grey  flannel  suits,  khaki  tunics  with  flannel  '  slacks,' 
or  full  khaki,  as  the  wearers  pleased.  The  little  lady 
in  white  had  drawn  all  the  male  eyes  upon  her  as  she 
came  in,  and  those  who  rapidly  resumed  their  talk 
with  Miss  Farrell  or  each  other,  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  the  newcomers,  were  no  less  aware  of  her 
than  those  who,  with  Farrell,  devoted  themselves  to 
supply  the  two  sisters  with  tea. 

Nelly  herself,  extremely  shy,  but  sustained  some- 


ii4  'MISSING' 

how  by  the  thought  that  she  must  hold  her  own  in 
this  new  world,  was  soon  deep  in  conversation  with 
a  charming  youth,  who  owned  a  long,  slightly  lantern- 
jawed  face  and  fair  hair,  moved  on  crutches  with  a 
slung  knee,  and  took  everything  including  his  wound 
as  '  funny.' 

'Where  is  your  husband?'  he  asked  her.  'Sir 
William  thinks  he  is  somewhere  near  Festubert? 
My  hat,  the  Lanchesters  have  been  having  a  hot  time 
there  ! — funny,  isn't  it  ?  But  they'll  be  moved  to 
an  easier  job  soon.  They're  always  in  luck — the 
Lanchesters — funny,  I  call  it? — what?  I  wouldn't 
worry  if  I  were  you.  Your  husband's  got  through 
this  all  right — mightn't  have  another  such  show  for 
ages.  These  things  are  awful  chancey — funny,  isn't 
it?  Oh,  my  wound? — well,  it  was  just  when  I  was 
getting  over  the  parados  to  move  back  to  billets — 
that  the  brute  got  me.  Funny,  wasn't  it?  Hullo ! — 
here's  a  swell !  My  hat! — it's  General  Torr ! ' 

Nelly  looked  up  bewildered  to  see  a  group  of 
officers  enter  the  room,  headed  by  a  magnificent 
soldier,  with  light  brown  hair,  handsome  features, 
and  a  broad  be-ribboned  chest.  Miss  Farrell  greeted 
him  and  his  comrades  with  her  best  smiles;  and 
Nelly  observed  her  closely,  as  she  stood  laughing 
and  talking  among  them.  Sir  William's  sister  was  in 
uniform,  if  it  could  be  called  a  uniform.  She  wore  a 
nurse's  cap  and  apron  over  a  pale  blue  dress  of  some 
soft  crapey  material.  The  cap  was  a  square  of  fine 
lawn,  two  corners  of  which  were  fastened  under  the 


'MISSING'  iiSi 

chin  with  a  brooch  consisting  of  one  large  pearl.  The 
open  throat  showed  a  single  string  of  fine  pearls,  and 
diamonds  sparkled  in  the  small  ears.  Edging  the 
cap  on  the  temples  and  cheeks  were  little  curls — a  la 
Henrietta  Maria — and  the  apron,  also  of  the  finest 
possible  lawn,  had  a  delicately  embroidered  edge. 
The  lips  of  the  wearer  had  been  artificially  reddened, 
her  eyebrows  and  eyelids  had  been  skilfully  pencilled, 
her  cheeks  rouged.  A  more  extraordinary  specimen 
of  the  nursing  sisterhood  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  find.  Nevertheless  the  result  was,  beyond 
gainsaying,  both  amusing  and  picturesque.  The  lad 
beside  Nelly  watched  Miss  Farrell  with  a  broad  grin. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  lady  in  a  thin  black  dress  and 
widow's  veil,  who  was  sitting  near  Bridget,  turned 
away  after  a  few  minutes'  observation  of  the  hostess, 
and  with  a  curling  lip  began  to  turn  over  a  book 
lying  on  a  table  near  her.  But  whether  the  onlookers 
admired  or  disapproved,  there  could  be  no  question 
that  Miss  Farrell  held  the  field. 

*  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Sarratt  has 
good  news  of  her  husband ! '  said  Captain  Mars- 
worth  courteously  to  Bridget,  hardly  able  to  make 
himself  heard  however  amid  the  din  and  laughter  of 
the  central  group.  He  too  had  been  watching  Cicely 
Farrell — but  with  a  wholly  impassive  countenance. 
Bridget  made  some  indifferent  answer,  and  then 
eagerly  asked  who  the  visitors  were.  She  was  told 
that  they  were  officers  from  a  neighbouring  camp, 
including  the  general  commanding  the  camp.  Sir 


n6  'MISSING' 

William,  said  Captain  Marsworth,  had  built  the 
whole  camp  at  his  own  expense,  and  on  his 
own  land,  without  waiting  for  any  government 
contractor. 

*  I  suppose  he  is  so  enormously  rich — he  can  do 
.anything  he  wants ! '  said  Bridget,  her  face  kindling. 

*  It  must  be  grand  never  to  think  what  you  spend.' 

Captain  Marsworth  was  a  trifle  taken  aback  by 
the  remark,  as  Sir  William  was  barely  a  couple  of 
yards  away. 

'  Yes,  I  daresay  it's  convenient,'  he  said,  lightly. 

*  And  what  do  you   find  to   do  with  yourself   at 
Rydal?' 

Bridget  informed  him  briefly  that  she  was  correct- 
ing some  proof-sheets  for  a  friend,  and  would  then 
have  an  index  to  make. 

Captain  Marsworth  looked  at  her  curiously. 

4  May  one  ask  what  the  book  is?' 

*  It's    something    new    about    psychology,'    said 
Bridget,  calmly.    '  It's  going  to  be  a  great  deal  talked 
about.    My  friend's  awfully  clever.' 

'  Ah !  Doesn't  she  find  it  a  little  difficult  to  think 
about  psychology  just  now?  ' 

'  Why  should  she  ?  Somebody's  got  to  think  about 
psychology,'  was  the  sharp  reply.  *  You  can't  let 
everything  go,  because  there's  a  war.' 

*  I  see !    You  remind  me  of  a  man  I  know,  who's 
translating  Dante.    He's  just  over  military  age,  and 
there  he  sits  in  a  Devonshire  valley,  with  a  pile  of 
books.    I  happen  to  know  a  particular  department  in 


'MISSING'  117 

a  public  office  that's  a  bit  hustled  for  want  of  men, 
and  I  suggested  that  he  should  lend  a  hand.  He  said 
it  was  his  business  to  keep  culture  going!' 

'Well?'  said  Bridget 

The  challenging  obstinacy  of  her  look  daunted 
him.  He  laughed. 

'  You  think  it  natural — and  right — to  take  the  war 
like  that?' 

'  Well,  I  don't  see  who's  got  a  right  to  interfere 
with  you  if  you  do,'  she  said,  stiffly.  Then,  however, 
it  occurred  even  to  her  obtuse  and  self-centred  per- 
ception, that  she  was  saying  something  unexpected 
and  distasteful  to  a  man  who  was  clearly  a  great 
friend  of  the  Farrells,  and  therefore  a  member  of 
the  world  she  envied.  So  she  changed  the  subject. 

'Does  Miss  Farrell  ever  do  any  real  nursing?' 
she  asked  abruptly. 

Captain  Marsworth's  look  became,  in  a  moment, 
reserved  and  cold.  '  She's  always  ready  to  do  any- 
thing for  any  of  us ! ' 

Then  the  speaker  rose.  '  I  see  Sir  William's 
preparing  to  take  your  sister  into  the  gardens. 
You  certainly  ought  to  see  them.  They're  very 
famous.' 

The  party  streamed  out  into  the  paths  leading 
through  a  wood,  and  past  a  series  of  water-lily  pools 
to  the  walled  gardens.  Sir  William  walked  in  front 
with  Nelly. 

'  My  brother's  new  craze  1 '  said  Cicely  in  the  ear 


n8  'MISSING' 

of  the  General  beside  her,  who  being  of  heroic  pro- 
portions had  to  stoop  some  way  to  hear  the  remark. 
He  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes. 

*  What,  that  little  woman?    A  vision!    Is  it  only 
looks,  or  is  there  something  besides?  ' 

Cicely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
'  I  don't  know.    I  haven't  found  out.    The  sister's 
plain,  disagreeable,  stupid.' 
1  She  looks  rather  clever.' 

*  Doesn't  that  show  she's  stupid?    Nobody  ought 
to  look  clever.    Do  you  admire  Mrs.  Sarratt?  ' 

*  Can  one  help  it?    Or  are  you  going  also  to  main- 
tain,' laughed  the  general,  '  that  no  one  can  be  beau- 
tiful who  looks  it? ' 

*  One  could  maintain  it — easily.    The  best  kind  of 
beauty  has  always  to  be  discovered.    What  do  you 
think,  Captain  Marsworth?' 

She  turned — provokingly — to  the  soldier  on  her 
left  hand. 

*  About  beauty?  '    He  looked  up  listlessly.    '  I've 
no  idea.    The  day's  too  hot.' 

Cicely  eyed  him. 

4  You're  tired!'  she  said  peremptorily.  'You've 
been  doing  too  much.  You  ought  to  go  and  rest.' 

He  smiled,  and  standing  back  he  let  them  pass 
him.  Turning  into  a  side  path  he  disappeared 
towards  the  hospital. 

*  Poor  old  fellow ! — he  still  looks  very  delicate,' 
said  the  General.    *  How  is  he  really  getting  on?  ' 

'  The  arm's  improving.  He's  having  massage  and 


'MISSING'  119 

electricity.  Sometimes  he  seems  perfectly  well,'  said 
Cicely.  An  oddly  defiant  note  had  crept  into  the  last 
sentence. 

'  He  looks  down — out  of  spirits.  Didn't  he  lose 
nearly  all  his  friends  at  Neuve  Chapelle?' 

*  Yes,  some  of  his  best  friends.' 

*  And  half  the  battalion !    He  always  cared  enor- 
mously about  his  men.    He  and  I,  you  know,  fought 
in  South  Africa  together.     Of  course  then  he  was 
just  a  young  subaltern.    He's  a  splendid  chap !    I'm 
afraid  he  won't  get  to  the  front  again.     But  of 
course  they'll  find  him  something  at  home.    He  ought 
to  marry — get  a  wife  to  look  after  him.    By  the  way, 
somebody  told  me  there  was  some  talk  about  him 
and  the  daughter  of  the  rector  here.    A  nice  little 
girl.    Do  you  know  her?  ' 

*  Miss  Stewart?    Yes.' 

*  What  do  you  think  of  her?  ' 

1  A  little  nincompoop.    Quite  harmless ! ' 

The  handsome  hero  smiled — unseen  by  his  com- 
panion. 

Meanwhile  Farrell  was  walking  with  Nelly 
through  the  stately  series  of  walled  gardens,  which 
his  grandfather  had  planned  and  carried  out,  mainly 
it  seemed  for  the  boredom  of  the  grandson. 

'What  do  we  want  with  all  these  things  now?' 
he  said,  waving  an  impatient  hand,  as  he  and  Nelly 
stood  at  the  top  flight  of  steps  looking  down  upon  the 
three  gardens  sloping  to  the  south,  with  their  frag- 
ments of  statuary,  and  old  leaden  statuettes,  ranged 


120  'MISSING' 

along  the  central  walks.  '  They're  all  out  of  date. 
They  were  before  the  war;  and  the  war  has  given 
them  the  coup  de  grace.  No  more  big  estates — no 
more  huge  country  houses!  My  grandfather  built 
and  built,  for  the  sake  of  building,  and  I  pay  for  his 
folly.  After  the  war ! — what  sort  of  a  world  shall 
we  tumble  into ! ' 

*  I  don't  want  these  gardens  destroyed ! '  said 
Nelly,  looking  up  at  him.  '  No  one  ought  to  spoil 
them.  They're  far  too  beautiful !  * 

She  was  beginning  to  speak  with  more  freedom, 
to  be  less  afraid  of  him.  The  gap  between  her  small 
provincial  experience  and  modes  of  thought,  and  his, 
was  narrowing.  Each  was  beginning  to  discover  the 
inner  personality  of  the  other.  And  the  more  Farrell 
explored  her  the  more  charmed  he  was.  She  was 
curiously  ignorant,  whether  of  books  or  life.  Even 
the  busy  commercial  life  amid  which  she  had  been 
brought  up,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  she  had  observed 
but  little.  When  he  asked  her  questions  about  Man- 
chester, she  was  generally  vague  or  puzzled.  He 
saw  that  she  was  naturally  romantic;  and  her  passion 
for  the  absent  Sarratt,  together  with  her  gnawing 
anxiety  about  him  which  could  not  be  concealed, 
made  her,  again,  very  touching  in  the  eyes  of  a  man 
of  imagination  whose  feelings  were  quick  and  soft. 
He  walked  about  with  her  for  more  than  an  hour, 
discoursing  ironically  on  the  Grecian  temples,  the 
rustic  bridges  and  pools  and  fountains,  now  in  imi- 
tation of  the  older  Versailles  and  now  of  the  Tria- 


'MISSING'  121 

non,  with  which  his  grandfather  had  burdened  his 
descendants;  so  that  the  glorious  evening,  as  it  de- 
scended, presently  became  a  merry  duel  between  him 
and  her,  she  defending  and  admiring  his  own  pos- 
sessions, and  he  attacking  them.  Her  eyes  sparkled, 
and  a  bright  red — a  natural  red — came  back  into 
her  pale  cheeks.  She  spoke  and  moved  with  an  evi- 
dent exhilaration,  as  though  she  realised  her  own 
developing  powers,  and  was  astonished  by  her  own 
readiness  of  speech,  and  the  sheer  pleasure  of  talk. 
And  something,  no  doubt,  entered  in  of  the  new 
scene;  its  scale  and  magnificence,  so  different  from 
anything  she  had  yet  known;  its  suggestion  of  a 
tradition  reaching  back  through  many  generations, 
and  of  a  series  of  lives  relieved  from  all  vulgar 
necessities,  playing  as  they  pleased  with  art  and 
money,  with  water  and  wood. 

At  the  same  time  she  was  never  merely  dazzled; 
and  never,  for  one  moment,  covetous  or  envious. 
He  was  struck  with  her  simple  dignity  and  inde- 
pendence; and  he  perfectly  understood  that  a  being 
so  profoundly  in  love,  and  so  overshadowed  by  a 
great  fear,  could  only  lend,  so  to  speak,  her  outer 
mind  to  Carton  or  the  persons  in  it.  He  gathered 
roses  for  her,  and  did  his  utmost  to  please  her.  But 
she  seemed  to  him  all  the  time  like  a  little  hovering 
elf — smiling  and  gay — but  quite  intangible. 

Dinner  in  the  *  cottage  '  was  short,  but  in  Bridget's 
eyes  perfect.  Personally,  she  was  not  enjoying  her- 


122  'MISSING' 

self  very  much,  for  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  did  not  get  on  with  military  men,  and  that  it  was 
their  fault,  not  hers;  so  that  she  sat  often  silent,  a 
fact  however  unnoticed  in  the  general  clatter  of  the 
table.  She  took  it  quite  calmly,  and  was  more  than 
compensated  for  the  lack  of  conversation  by  the 
whole  spectacle  of  the  Farrell  wealth;  the  flowers, 
the  silver,  the  costly  accessories  of  all  kinds,  which 
even  in  war-time,  and  in  a  *  cottage,'  seemed  to  be 
indispensable.  It  would  have  been  more  amusing,  no 
doubt,  if  it  had  been  the  big  house  and  not  the  cot- 
tage. Sometimes  through  the  open  windows  and  the 
trees,  she  caught  sight  of  the  great  lighted  pile  a 
little  way  off,  and  found  herself  dreaming  of  what 
it  would  be  to  live  there,  and  to  command  all  that 
these  people  commanded.  She  saw  herself  sweeping 
through  the  magnificent  rooms,  giving  orders,  invit- 
ing guests,  entertaining  royalty,  driving  about  the 
country  in  splendid  motors.  It  was  a  waking  dream, 
and  though  she  never  uttered  a  word,  the  animation 
of  her  thoughts  infused  a  similar  animation  into  her 
aspect,  and  made  her  almost  unconscious  of  her 
neighbours.  Captain  Marsworth  made  several  at- 
tempts to  win  her  attention  before  she  heard  him. 

1  Yes.' 

She  turned  at  last  an  absent  glance  upon  him. 

*  Miss  Farrell  talks  of  our  all  going  over  to  the 
hospital  after  dinner.  She  and  Sir  William  often 
spend  the  evening  there,'  said  Captain  Marsworth, 
quite  aware  from  Miss  Farrell's  frequent  glances  in 


'MISSING'  123 

his  direction  that  he  was  not  in  her  opinion  doing 
his  duty  with  Miss  Cookson. 

'Will  it  take  us  long?'  said  Bridget,  the  vivacity 
of  her  look  dying  out. 

*  As  long  as  you  please  to  stay  I '  laughed  the 
Captain,  drily. 

That  passage  after  dinner  through  the  convales- 
cent wards  of  the  finely  equipped  hospital  was  to 
Nelly  Sarratt  an  almost  intolerable  experience.  She 
went  bravely  through  it,  leaving,  wherever  she 
talked  to  a  convalescent,  an  impression  of  shy  sweet- 
ness behind  her,  which  made  a  good  many  eyes  fol- 
low her  as  Farrell  led  her  through  the  rooms.  But 
she  was  thankful  when  it  was  over;  and  when,  at 
last,  she  was  alone  in  her  room  for  the  night,  she 
flew — for  consolation — to  the  drawer  in  which  she 
had  locked  her  writing-desk,  and  the  letters  she  had 
received  that  morning.  The  post  had  just  arrived 
as  they  were  leaving  Rydal,  and  she  had  hastily  torn 
open  a  letter  from  George,  and  thrust  the  others  into 
a  large  empty  envelope.  And  now  she  discovered 
among  them  to  her  delight  a  second  letter  from 
George,  unopened.  What  unexpected  joy! 

It  too  was  dated — *  Somewhere  in  France  ' — and 
had  been  written  two  days  after  the  letter  she  had 
opened  in  the  morning. 

'  My  darling — we're  having  a  real  jolly  time  here 
— in  an  old  village,  far  behind  the  line,  and  it  is  said 
we  shall  be  here  for  three  whole  weeks.  Well,  some 


i24  'MISSING' 

of  us  really  wanted  it,  for  the  battalion  has  been  in 
some  very  hot  fighting  lately,  and  has  had  a  nasty 
bit  of  the  line  to  look  after  for  a  long  time — with 
nothing  very  much  to  show  for  it.  My  platoon  has 
lost  some  of  its  best  men,  and  I've  been  pretty  badly 
hit,  as  some  of  them  were  real  chums  of  mine — the 
bravest  and  dearest  fellows.  And  I  don't  know 
why,  but  for  the  first  time,  I've  been  feeling  rather 
jumpy  and  run  down.  So  I  went  to  a  doctor,  and  he 
told  me  I'd  better  go  off  duty  for  a  fortnight.  But 
just  then,  luckily,  the  whole  battalion  was  ordered, 
as  I  told  you  a  week  ago,  into  what's  called  "  divi- 
sional rest,"  so  here  we  are — for  three  weeks !  Quite 
good  billets — an  old  French  farm — with  two  good 
barns  and  lots  of  straw  for  the  men,  and  an  actual 
bedroom  for  me — and  a  real  bed — with  sheets! 
Think  of  that!  I  am  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
Just  at  first  I'm  going  to  stay  in  bed  for  a  couple 
of  days  to  please  the  doctor — but  then  I  shall  be  all 
right,  and  shall  probably  take  a  course  of  gymnastics 
they're  starting  here — odd,  isn't  it? — like  putting  us 
to  school  again! — so  that  I  may  be  quite  fit  before 
going  back  to  the  front. 

'  One  might  almost  forget  the  war  here,  if  it 
weren't  for  the  rumble  of  the  guns  which  hardly  ever 
ceases.  They  are  about  thirty-five  miles  away.  The 
whole  country  is  quite  peaceful,  and  the  crops  coming 
on  splendidly.  The  farm  produces  delicious  brown 
eggs — and  you  should  see — and  taste — the  omelets 
the  farmer's  wife  makes!  Coffee  too — first-rate! 


'MISSING'  125 

How  these  French  women  work!  Our  men  are 
always  helping  them,  and  the  children  hang  round 
our  Tommies  like  flies. 

'  These  two  days  in  bed  are  a  godsend,  for  I  can 
read  all  your  letters  through  again.  There  they  are 
— spread  out  on  my  sheet!  By  Jove,  little  woman, 
you've  treated  me  jolly  well!  And  now  I  can  pay 
you  back  a  little.  But  perhaps  you  won't  mind,  dear- 
est, if  I  don't  write  anything  very  long,  for  I  expect 
I  ought  to  take  it  easy — for  a  bit — I  can't  think  why 
I  should  have  felt  so  slack.  I  never  knew  anything 
about  nerves  before.  But  the  doctor  has  been  very 
nice  and  understanding — a  real,  decent  fellow.  He 
declares  I  shall  be  as  fit  as  a  fiddle,  long  before  the 
three  weeks  are  done. 

'  My  bedroom  door  is  open,  and  some  jolly  yellow 
chickens  are  wandering  in  and  out.  And  sometimes 
the  farmer's  youngest — a  nice  little  chap  of  eight — 
comes  to  look  at  me.  I  teach  him  English — or  I  try 
— but  when  I  say  the  English  words,  he  just  doubles 
up  with  laughing  and  runs  away.  Nelly,  my  precious 
— if  I  shut  my  eyes — I  can  fancy  your  little  head 
there — just  inside  the  door — and  your  eyes  looking 
at  me !  .  .  .May  the  Lord  give  us  good  luck — and 
may  we  all  be  home  by  Christmas ! — Mind  you  finish 
that  sketch ! ' 

She  put  the  letter  down  with  a  rather  tremulous 
hand.  It  had  depressed  her,  and  made  her  anxious. 
She  read  in  it  that  George  had  been  through  horrible 
things — and  had  suffered. 


126  'MISSING' 

Then  all  that  she  had  seen  in  the  hospital  came 
back  upon  her,  and  rising  restlessly  she  threw  herself, 
without  undressing,  face  downwards  on  her  bed. 
That  officer,  blanched  to  the  colour  of  white  wax, 
who  had  lost  a  leg  after  frightful  haemorrhage ;  that 
other,  the  merest  boy,  whose  right  eye  had  been 
excised — she  could  not  get  them  out  of  her  mind,  nor 
the  stories  they  had  told  her  of  the  actions  in  which 
they  had  been  wounded. 

*  George — George ! '     It  was  a  moan  of  misery, 
stifled  in  the  darkness. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  remembered  she  had  not  said 
good-night  to  Bridget.  She  had  forgotten  Bridget. 
She  had  been  unkind.  She  got  up,  and  sped  along 
the  passage  to  Bridget's  room. 

4  Bridget ! '  She  just  opened  the  door.  '  May  I 
come  in  ? ' 

*  Come  in.' 

Bridget  was  already  in  bed.  In  her  hands  was  a 
cup  of  steaming  chocolate  which  a  maid  had  just 
brought  her,  and  she  was  lingering  over  it  with  a 
face  of  content. 

Nelly  opened  her  eyes  in  astonishment. 

*  Did  you  ask  for  it,  Bridget? ' 

*  I  did — or  rather  the  housemaid  asked  what  I 
would   have.     She    said — "  ladies   have   just   what 
they  like  in  their  rooms."     So  I  asked  for  choco- 
late.' 

Nelly  sat  down  on  the  bed. 
'Is  it  good?' 


iMISSING>  127 

4  Excellent,'  said  Bridget  calmly.  *  Whatever  did 
you  expect?' 

4  We  seem  to  have  been  eating  ever  since  we 
came !  *  said  Nelly  frowning, — *  and  they  call  it 
economising! ' 

Bridget  threw  back  her  head  with  a  quiet  laugh. 

4  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ? ' 

4 1  wondered  how  you  got  on  at  dinner?'  said 
Nelly  hesitating.  4  Captain  Marsworth  didn't  seem 
to  be  taking  much  trouble  ? ' 

4  It  didn't  matter  to  me,'  said  Bridget.  4  That  kind 
of  man  always  behaves  like  that.' 

Nelly  flushed. 

4  You  mean  soldiers  behave  like  that?  ' 

4  Well,  I  don't  like  soldiers — brothers-in-law  ex- 
cepted,  of  course.'  And  Bridget  gave  her  short, 
rather  harsh  laugh. 

Nelly  got  up. 

4  Well,  I  shall  be  ready  to  go  as  early  as  you  like 
on  Monday,  Bridget.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to 
pack  all  my  things  so  nicely  1 ' 

4  Don't  I  always  ? '  Bridget  laughed. 

4  You  do — you  do  indeed.    Good-night.' 

She  touched  Bridget's  cheek  with  her  lips  and  stole 
away. 

Bridget  was  left  to  think.  There  was  a  dim  light 
in  the  room  showing  the  fine  inlaid  furniture,  the 
flowery  paper,  the  chintz-covered  arm-chairs  and 
sofa,  and,  through  an  open  door,  part  of  the  tiled 
wall  of  the  bathroom. 


128  'MISSING' 

Miss  Cookson  had  never  slept  in  such  a  room 
before,  and  every  item  in  it  pleased  a  starved  sense 
in  her.  Poverty  was  hateful!  Could  one  never 
escape  it? 

Then  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  watch- 
ing Sir  William  and  Nelly  in  the  gardens,  his  pro- 
tecting eager  air — her  face  looking  up.  Of  course 
she  might  have  married  him — with  the  greatest  ease ! 
— if  only  George  Sarratt  had  not  been  in  the  way. 

But  supposing — 

All  the  talk  that  evening  had  been  of  a  new  *  push  ' 
— a  new  and  steady  offensive,  as  soon  as  the  shell 
supply  was  better.  George  would  be  in  that  *  push.' 
Nobody  expected  it  for  another  month.  By  that  time 
he  would  be  back  at  the  front.  She  lay  and  thought, 
her  eyes  closed,  her  harsh  face  growing  a  little  white 
and  pinched  under  the  electric  lamp  beside  her. 
Potentially,  her  thoughts  were  murderous.  The  wish 
that  George  might  not  return  formed  itself  clearly, 
for  the  first  time,  in  her  mind.  Dreams  followed,  as 
to  consequences  both  for  Nelly  and  herself,  suppos- 
ing he  did  not  return.  And  in  the  midst  of  them  she 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  UGUST  came,  the  second  August  of  the  war. 
/"\  The  heart  of  England  was  sad  and  sick,  torn 
by  the  losses  at  Gallipoli,  by  the  great  disaster 
of  the  Russian  retreat,  by  the  shortage  of  munitions, 
by  the  endless  small  fighting  on  the  British  front, 
which  eat  away  the  young  life  of  our  race,  week  by 
week,  and  brought  us  no  further.  But  the  spirit  of 
the  nation  was  rising — and  its  grim  task  was  becom- 
ing nakedly  visible  at  last.  Guns — men!  Nothing 
else  to  say — nothing  else  to  do. 

George  Sarratt's  battalion  returned  to  the  fighting 
line  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  August.  '  But 
we  are  only  marking  time,'  he  wrote  to  his  wife. 
'  Nothing  doing  here,  though  the  casualties  go  on 
every  day.  However  we  all  know  in  our  bones  there 
will  be  plenty  to  do  soon.  As  for  me  I  am — more  or 
less — all  right  again/ 

Indeed,  as  September  wore  on,  expectation  quick- 
ened on  both  sides  of  the  Channel.  Nelly  went  in 
fear  of  she  knew  not  what.  The  newspapers  said 
little,  but  through  Carton  and  the  Farrells,  she  heard 
a  great  deal  of  military  gossip.  The  shell  supply  was 
improving — the  new  Ministry  of  Munitions  begin- 
ing  to  tell — a  great  blow  was  impending. 

Weeks  of  rain  and  storm  died  down  into  an 
129 


i3o  'MISSING' 

autumnal  gentleness.  The  bracken  was  turning  on 
the  hills,  the  woods  beginning  to  dress  for  the 
pageant  of  October.  The  sketching  lessons  which 
the  usual  August  deluge  had  interrupted  were  to 
begin  again,  as  soon  as  Farrell  came  home.  He  had 
been  in  France  for  a  fortnight,  at  Etaples,  and  in 
Paris,  studying  new  methods  and  appliances  for  the 
benefit  of  the  hospital.  But  whether  he  was  at  home 
or  no,  the  benefactions  of  Carton  never  ceased. 
Almost  every  other  day  a  motor  from  the  Hall  drove 
up  laden  with  fruit  and  flowers,  with  books  and 
magazines. 

The  fourth  week  of  September  opened.  The 
rumours  of  coming  events  crept  more  heavily  and 
insistently  than  ever  through  a  sudden  spell  of  heat 
that  hung  over  the  Lakes.  Nelly  Sarratt  slept  little, 
and  wrote  every  day  to  her  George,  letters  of  which 
long  sections  were  often  destroyed  when  written,  con- 
demned for  lack  of  cheerfulness. 

She  was  much  touched  by  Farrell's  constant 
kindness,  and  grateful  for  it;  especially  because  it 
seemed  to  keep  Bridget  in  a  good  temper.  She  was 
grateful  too  for  the  visitors  whom  a  hint  from  him 
would  send  on  fine  afternoons  to  call  on  the  ladies 
at  Rydal — convalescent  officers,  to  whom  the  drive 
from  Carton,  and  tea  with  '  the  pretty  Mrs.  Sarratt ' 
were  an  attraction,  while  Nelly  would  hang  breath- 
less on  their  gossip  of  the  war,  until  suddenly,  per- 
haps, she  would  turn  white  and  silent,  lying  back  in 
her  garden  chair  with  the  look  which  the  men  talking 


'MISSING'  131 

to  her — brave,  kind-hearted  fellows — soon  learnt  to 
understand.  Marsworth  came  occasionally,  and 
Nelly  grew  to  like  him  sincerely,  and  to  be  vaguely 
sorry  for  him,  she  hardly  knew  why.  Cicely  Far- 
rell  apparently  forgot  them  entirely.  And  in  August 
and  the  first  part  of  September  she  too,  according 
to  Captain  Marsworth's  information,  had  been  away, 
paying  visits. 

On  the  morning  of  September  26th,  the  Manches- 
ter papers  which  reached  the  cottage  with  the  post 
contained  columns  of  telegrams  describing  the  British 
attack  at  Loos,  and  the  French  '  push '  in  Cham- 
pagne. Among  the  letters  was  a  short  word  from 
Sarratt,  dated  the  24th.  *  We  shall  probably  be  in 
action  to-morrow,  dearest.  I  will  wire  as  soon  as  I 
can,  but  you  must  not  be  anxious  if  there  is  delay.  As 
far  as  I  can  judge  it  will  be  a  big  thing.  You  may  be 
sure  I  shall  take  all  the  precautions  possible.  God 
bless  you,  darling.  Your  letters  are  everything.' 

Nelly  read  the  letter  and  the  newspaper,  her  hands 
trembling  as  she  held  it.  At  breakfast,  Bridget  eyed 
her  uncomfortably. 

4  He'll  be  all  right ! '  she  said  with  harsh  decision. 
1  Don't  fret.' 

The  day  passed,  with  heavy  heat  mists  over  the 
Lake,  the  fells  and  the  woods  blotted  out.  On  pre- 
tence of  sketching,  Nelly  spent  the  hours  on  the  side 
of  Loughrigg,  trying  sometimes  to  draw  or  sew,  but 
for  the  most  part,  lying  with  shut  eyes,  hidden  among 
the  bracken.  Her  faculty  for  dreaming  awake — for 


132  'MISSING5 

a  kind  of  visualisation  sharper  than  most  people  pos- 
sess— had  been  much  developed  since  George's 
departure.  It  partly  tormented,  partly  soothed 
her. 

Night  came  without  news.  '  I  can't  hear  till  to- 
morrow night,'  she  thought,  and  lay  still  all  night 
patient  and  sleepless,  her  little  hands  crossed  on  her 
breast.  The  window  was  wide  open  and  she  could 
see  the  stars  peering  over  Loughrigg. 

Next  morning,  fresh  columns  in  the  newspaper. 
The  action  was  still  going  on.  She  must  wait.  And 
somehow  it  was  easier  to  wait  this  second  day;  she 
felt  more  cheerful.  Was  there  some  secret  voice 
telling  her  that  if  he  were  dead,  she  would  have 
heard? 

After  lunch  she  set  out  to  take  some  of  the  Carton 
flowers  to  the  farmer's  wife  living  in  a  fold  of  the 
fell,  who  had  lost  her  only  son  in  the  July  fighting. 
Hester  Martin  had  guided  her  there  one  day,  and 
some  fellow-feeling  had  established  itself  rapidly  be- 
tween Nelly,  and  the  sad,  dignified  woman,  whose 
duties  went  on  as  usual  while  all  that  gave  them  zest 
had  departed. 

The  distance  was  short,  and  she  left  exact  word 
where  she  could  be  found.  As  she  climbed  the  nar- 
row lane  leading  to  the  farm,  she  presently  heard  a 
motor  approaching.  The  walls  enclosing  the  lane 
left  barely  room  to  pass.  She  could  only  scramble 
hurriedly  up  a  rock  which  had  been  built  into  the 
wall,  and  hold  on  to  a  young  tree  growing  from  it. 


'MISSING'  133 

The  motor  which  was  large  and  luxurious  passed 
slowly,  and  in  the  car  she  saw  two  young  men,  one 
pale  and  sickly-looking,  wrapped  in  a  great-coat 
though  the  day  was  stuffily  warm:  the  other,  the 
driver,  a  tall  and  stalwart  fellow,  who  threw  Nelly 
a  cold,  unfriendly  look  as  they  went  by.  Who  could 
they  be?  The  road  only  led  to  the  farm,  and  when 
Nelly  had  last  visited  Mrs.  Grayson,  a  week  before, 
she  and  her  old  husband  and  a  granddaughter  of 
fourteen  had  been  its  only  inmates. 

Mrs.  Grayson  received  her  with  a  smile. 

*  Aye,  aye,  Mrs.  Sarratt,  coom  in.     Yo're  wel- 
come.' 

But  as  Nelly  entered  the  flagged  kitchen,  with  its 
joints  of  bacon  and  its  bunches  of  dried  herbs,  hang- 
ing from  the  low  beamed  ceiling,  its  wide  hob  grate, 
its  dresser,  table  and  chairs  of  old  Westmorland  oak, 
every  article  in  it  shining  with  elbow-grease, — she 
saw  that  Mrs.  Grayson  looked  particularly  tired  and 
pale. 

'  Yo  mun  ha'  passed  them  in  t'  lane?'  said  the 
farmer's  wife  wearily,  when  the  flowers  had  been 
admired  and  put  in  water,  and  Nelly  had  been  estab- 
lished in  the  farmer's  own  chair  by  the  fire,  while  his 
wife  insisted  on  getting  an  early  cup  of  tea. 

*  Who  were  they,  Mrs.  Grayson?  ' 

'  Well,  they're  nobbut  a  queer  soart,  Mrs.  Sar- 
ratt— and  I'd  be  glad  to  see  t'  back  on  'em.  They're 
"  conscientious  objectors  " — that's  what  they  are — 
an  my  husband  coom  across  them  in  Kendal  toother 


I34  'MISSING1 

day.  He'd  finished  wi  t'  market,  and  he  strolled  into 
the  room  at  the  Town  Hall,  where  the  men  were 
coomin'  in — yo  know — to  sign  on  for  the  war.  An' 
he  got  talkin'  wi'  these  two  lads,  who  were  lookin' 
on  as  he  was.  And  they  said  they  was  "  conscientious 
objectors  " — and  wouldn't  fight  not  for  nothing  nor 
nobody.  But  they  wouldn't  mind  doing  their  bit  in 
other  ways,  they  said.  So  John  he  upped  and  said — 
would  they  coom  and  help  him  with  his  second  crop 
o'  hay — you  know  we've  lost  nearly  all  our  men, 
Mrs.  Sarratt — and  they  said  they  would — and  that 
very  evening  he  brought  'em  along.  And  who  do 
you  think  they  are  ? ' 

Nelly  could  not  guess;  and  Mrs.  Grayson  ex- 
plained that  the  two  young  men  were  the  wealthy 
sons  of  a  wealthy  Liverpool  tradesman  and  were 
starting  a  branch  of  their  father's  business  in  Kendal. 
They  had  each  of  them  a  motor,  and  apparently  un- 
limited money.  They  had  just  begun  to  be  useful  in 
the  hay-making — *  But  they  wouldn't  touch  the  stock 
— they  wouldn't  kill  anything — not  a  rat!  They 
wouldn't  even  shoo  the  birds  from  the  oats!  And 
last  night  one  of  them  was  took  ill — and  I  must  go 
and  sit  up  with  him,  while  his  brother  fetched  the  big 
car  from  Kendal  to  take  him  home.  And  there  was 
he,  groaning, — nobbut  a  bit  of  colic,  Mrs.  Sarratt, 
that  anybody  might  have ! — and  there  I  sat — think- 
ing of  our  lads  in  the  trenches — thinking  of  my  boy — 
that  never  grumbled  at  anything — and  would  ha' 
been  just  ashamed  to  make  such  a  fuss  for  such  a 


'MISSING1  135 

little.  And  this  afternoon  the  brother's  taken  him 
away  to  be  molly-coddled  at  home.  And,  of  course, 
they've  left  us,  just  when  they  might  ha'  been  o'  soom 
real  service.  There's  three  fields  still  liggin  oot  in  t' 
wet — and  nobody  to  lend  a  hand  wi'  them.  But  I 
doan't  want  them  back !  I  doan't  hold  wi'  f oak  like 
that.  I  doan't  want  to  see  a  mon  like  that  settin' 
where  my  boy  used  to  set,  when  he  came  home.  It 
goes  agin  me.  I  can't  soomhow  put  up  wi'  it.' 

And  as  she  sat  there  opposite  Nelly,  her  gnarled 
and  work-stained  hands  resting  on  her  knees,  the 
tears  suddenly  ran  over  her  cheeks.  But  she  quickly 
apologised  for  herself.  *  The  truth  is  I  am  run 
doon,  Mrs.  Sarratt.  I've  done  nothing  but  cook  and 
cook — since  these  young  men  coom  along.  They 
wouldn't  eat  noa  flesh — soa  I  must  always  be  cookin' 
summat — vegetables — or  fish — or  sweet  things.  I'm 
fair  tired  oot ! ' 

Nelly  exclaimed  indignantly. 

*  Was  it  their  religion  made  them  behave  like 
that?' 

'  Religion ! '  Mrs.  Grayson  laughed.  *  Well,  they 
was  only  the  yan  Sunday  here — but  they  took  no 
account  o't,  whativer.  They  went  motorin'  all  day; 
an  niver  set  foot  in  church  or  chapel.  They  belong 
to  soom  Society  or  other — I  couldna  tell  what.  But 
we'll  not  talk  o'  them  ony  more,  Mrs.  Sarratt,  if  yo 
please.  I'm  just  thankful  they're  gone.  .  ,.  .  An 
have  ye  heard  this  day  of  Mr.  Sarratt?' 

The  gentle  ageing  face  bent  forward  tenderly. 


i36  'MISSING' 

Nelly  lifted  her  own  dark-rimmed  eyes  to  it.  Her 
mouth  quivered. 

1  No,  not  yet,  Mrs.  Grayson.  But  I  shall  soon. 
You'll  have  seen  about  this  fighting  in  the  news- 
papers? There's  been  a  great  battle — I  think  he'll 
have  been  in  it.  I  shall  hear  to-night.  I  shall  be 
sure  to  hear  to-night.' 

'  The  Lord  protect  him ! '  said  Mrs.  Grayson 
softly.  They  both  sat  silent,  looking  into  the  fire. 
Through  the  open  door,  the  hens  could  be  heard 
pecking  and  clucking  in  the  yard,  and  the  rushing  of  a 
beck  swollen  by  the  rain,  on  the  fell-side.  Presently 
the  farmer's  wife  looked  up — 

*  It's  devil's  work,  is  war !  '  she  said,  her  eyes 
blazing.    Nelly  held  out  her  hand  and  Mrs.  Grayson 
put  hers  into  it.     The  two  women  looked  at  each 
other, — the  one  who  had  lost,  and  the  other  who 
feared  to  lose. 

*  Yes,   it's   awful,'   said  Nelly,   in   a   low  voice. 
1  They  want  us  to  be  brave — but ' 

Mrs.  Grayson  shook  her  head  again. 

*  We  can  do  it  when  they're  settin'  there — afore 
us,'  she  said,  *  but  not  when  we're  by  our  lone.' 

Nelly  nodded. 

'  It's  the  nights  that  are  worst — '  she  murmured, 
under  her  breath — *  because  it's  then  they're  fighting 
- — when  we're  in  bed — sleeping.' 

*  My  boy  was  killed  between  one  and  two  in  the 
morning ' — whispered    Mrs.    Grayson.     *  I    heard 
from  one  of  his  friends  this  morning.  He  says  it  was 


'MISSING'  137 

a  lovely  night,  and  the  daylight  just  comin'  up.  I 
think  of  it  when  I'm  layin'  awake  and  hearing  the 
birds  beginning.' 

There  was  silence  again,  till  Mrs.  Grayson  said, 
suddenly,  with  a  strange  passion: — 

'  But  I'd  rather  be  Jim's  mother,  and  be  settin' 
here  without  him,  than  I'd  be  the  mother  o'  yan  of 
them  young  fellows  as  is  just  gone ! ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Nelly  slowly — '  yes.  If  we  think  too 
much  about  keeping  them  safe — just  for  ourselves — 
they  despise — they  would  despise  us.  And  if  any- 
one hangs  back,  we  despise  them.  It'  a  horrible 
puzzle.' 

'  We  can  pray  for  them,'  said  Mrs.  Grayson  sim- 
ply. '  God  can  keep  them  safe  if  it's  His  will.' 

'  Yes ' — said  Nelly  again.  But  her  tone  was  flat 
and  hesitating.  Her  ever-present  fear  was  very  little 
comforted  by  prayer.  But  she  found  comfort  in  Mrs. 
Grayson.  She  liked  to  stay  on  in  the  old  kitchen, 
watching  Mrs.  Grayson's  household  ways,  making 
friends  with  the  stolid  tabby  cat,  or  listening  to 
stories  of  Jim  as  a  child.  Sometimes  she  would  read 
parts  of  George's  letters  to  this  new  friend.  Bridget 
never  cared  to  hear  them;  and  she  was  more  com- 
pletely at  ease  with  the  farmer's  wife  even  than  with 
Hester  Martin. 

But  she  could  not  linger  this  afternoon.  Her  news 
might  come  any  time.  And  Sir  William  had  tele- 
phoned that  morning  to  say  that  he  and  his  sister 
would  call  on  their  way  from  Windermere,  and 


138  'MISSING' 

would  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea.    M arsworth  would  prob- 
ably meet  them  at  Rydal. 

As  she  descended  the  lane,  she  scolded  herself  for 
ingratitude.  She  was  glad  the  Farrells  were  coming, 
because  they  would  bring  newspapers,  and  perhaps 
information  besides,  of  the  kind  that  does  not  get 
into  newspapers.  But  otherwise — why  had  she  so 
little  pleasure  now  in  the  prospect  of  a  visit  from 
Sir  William  Farrell?  He  had  never  forced  himself 
upon  them.  Neither  his  visits  nor  his  lessons  had 
been  oppressively  frequent,  while  the  kindnesses 
which  he  had  showered  upon  them,  from  a  distance, 
had  been  unceasing.  She  could  hardly  have  ex- 
plained her  disinclination.  Was  it  that  his  company 
had  grown  so  stimulating  and  interesting  to  her,  that 
it  made  her  think  too  much  of  other  things  than  the 
war? — and  so  it  seemed  to  separate  her  from 
George?  Her  own  quiet  occupations — the  needle- 
work and  knitting  that  she  did  for  a  neighbouring 
war  workroom,  the  gathering  and  drying  of  the 
sphagnum  moss,  the  visiting  of  a  few  convalescent 
soldiers,  a  daily  portion  of  Wordsworth,  and  some 
books  about  him — these  things  were  within  her  com- 
pass; George  knew  all  about  them,  for  she  chronicled 
them  in  her  letters  day  by  day.  She  had  a  happy 
peaceful  sense  of  communion  with  him  while  she  was 
busy  with  them.  But  FarrelPs  restless  mind  and 
wide  culture  at  once  tired  and  fascinated  her.  He 
would  often  bring  a  volume  of  Shelley,  or  Pater,  or 
Hardy,  or  some  quite  modern  poet,  in  his  pocket,  and 


'MISSING'  139 

propose  to  read  to  her  and  Bridget,  when  the  sketch- 
ing was  done.  And  as  he  read,  he  would  digress  into 
talk,  the  careless  audacity  of  which  would  sometimes 
distress  or  repel,  and  sometimes  absorb  her;  till  sud- 
denly, perhaps,  she  realised  how  far  she  was  wander- 
ing from  that  common  ground  where  she  and  George 
had  moved  together,  and  would  try  and  find  her 
way  back  to  it.  She  was  always  learning  some  new 
thing;  and  she  hated  to  learn,  unless  George  changed 
and  learnt  with  her. 

Meanwhile  Captain  Marsworth  was  walking  along 
the  road  from  Grasmere  to  Rydal  with  a  rather 
listless  step.  As  a  soldier  he  was  by  no  means 
satisfied  with  the  news  of  the  week.  We  ought  to 
have  been  in  Lille  and  weren't.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  was  about  what  the  Loos  action  came  to;  and 
his  spirits  were  low.  In  addition  he  was  in  one  of 
those  fits  of  depression  which  attack  an  able  man  who 
has  temporarily  come  to  a  stand-still  in  life,  when  his 
physical  state  is  not  buoyant  enough  to  enable  him  to 
fight  them  off.  He  was  beginning  plainly  to  see  that 
his  own  part  in  the  war  was  done.  His  shattered 
arm,  together  with  the  neuralgic  condition  which  had 
followed  on  the  wound,  were  not  going  to  mend  suf- 
ficiently within  any  reasonable  time  to  let  him  return 
to  the  fighting  line,  where,  at  the  moment  of  his 
wound,  he  was  doing  divisional  staff  work,  and  was 
in  the  way  of  early  promotion.  He  was  a  man  of 
clear  and  vigorous  mind,  inclined  always  to  take  a 


140  'MISSING' 

pessimistic  view  of  himself  and  his  surroundings, 
and  very  critical  also  of  persons  in  authority;  a  sci- 
entific soldier,  besides,  indulging  a  strong  natural 
contempt  for  the  politicians  and  all  their  crew,  only 
surpassed  by  a  similar  scorn  of  newspapers  and  the 
press.  He  had  never  been  popular  as  a  subaltern, 
but  since  he  had  conquered  his  place  among  the 
'  brains  '  of  the  army,  his  fame  had  spread,  and  it 
was  freely  prophesied  that  his  rise  would  be  rapid. 
So  that  his  growing  conviction  that  his  active  military 
career  was  over  had  been  the  recent  cause  in  him  of 
much  bitterness  of  soul.  It  was  a  bitter  realisation, 
and  a  recent  one.  He  had  been  wounded  at  Neuve 
Chapelle  in  March,  and  up  to  July  he  had  been  con- 
fident of  complete  and  rapid  recovery. 

Well,  there  was  of  course  some  compensation.  A 
post  in  the  War  Office — in  the  Intelligence  Depart- 
ment— would,  he  understood,  be  offered  him;  and  by 
October  he  meant  to  be  at  work.  Meanwhile  an  old 
school  and  college  friendship  between  himself  and 
*  Bill  Farrell/  together  with  the  special  facilities  at 
Carton  for  the  treatment  of  neuralgia  after  wounds, 
had  made  him  an  inmate  for  several  months  of  the 
special  wing  devoted  to  such  cases  in  the  splendid 
hospital;  though  lately  by  way  of  a  change  of  sur- 
roundings, he  had  been  lodging  with  the  old  Rector 
of  the  village  of  Carton,  whose  house  was  kept — 
and  well  kept — by  a  sweet-looking  and  practical 
granddaughter,  herself  an  orphan. 


'MISSING'  141 

Marsworth  had  connections  in  high  quarters,  and 
possessed  some  considerable  means.  He  had  been  a 
frequenter  of  the  Farrells  since  the  days  when  the  old 
aunt  was  still  in  command,  and  Cicely  was  a  young 
thing  going  to  her  first  dances.  He  and  she  had 
sparred  and  quarrelled  as  boy  and  girl.  Now  that, 
after  a  long  interval,  they  had  again  been  thrown 
into  close  contact,  they  sparred  and  quarrelled  still. 
He  was  a  man  of  high  and  rather  stern  ideals,  which 
had  perhaps  been  intensified — made  a  little  grimmer 
and  fiercer  than  before — by  the  strain  of  the  war; 
and  the  selfish  frivolity  of  certain  persons  and  classes 
in  face  of  the  national  ordeal  was  not  the  least  atoned 
for  in  his  eyes  by  the  heroism  of  others.  The  endless 
dress  advertisements  in  the  daily  papers  affected  him 
as  they  might  have  affected  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  had 
the  daughters  of  Judah  added  the  purchase  of  fur 
coats,  priced  from  twenty  guineas  to  two  hundred  to 
their  other  enormities.  He  had  always  in  his  mind 
the  agonies  of  the  war,  the  sights  of  the  trenches, 
the  holocaust  of  young  life,  the  drain  on  the  national 
resources,  the  burden  on  the  national  future.  So 
that  the  Farrell  motor-cars  and  men  servants,  the 
costly  simplicity  of  the  '  cottage,'  Cicely's  extrava- 
gance in  dress,  her  absurd  and  expensive  uniform, 
her  make-up  and  her  jewels,  were  so  many  daily 
provocations  to  a  man  thus  sombrely  possessed. 

And  yet — he  had  not  been  able  so  far  to  tear 
himself  away  from  Carton!  And  he  knew  many 


142  'MISSING' 

things  about  Cicely  Farrell  that  Nelly  Sarratt  had 
not  discovered ;  things  that  alternately  softened  and 
enraged  him;  things  that  kept  him  now,  as  for  some 
years  past,  provokingly,  irrationally  interested  in 
her.  He  had  once  proposed  to  her,  and  she  had 
refused  him.  That  was  known  to  a  good  many  peo- 
ple. But  what  their  relations  were  now  was  a  mys- 
tery to  the  friends  on  both  sides. 

Whatever  they  were,  however,  on  this  September 
afternoon  Marsworth  was  coming  rapidly  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  had  better  put  an  end  to  them. 
His  latent  feelings  of  resentment  and  irritation  had 
been  much  sharpened  of  late  by  certain  passages 
of  arms  between  himself  and  Cicely — since  she 
returned  from  her  visits — with  regard  to  that  per- 
fectly gentle  and  inoffensive  little  maiden,  Miss 
Daisy  Stewart,  the  Rector's  granddaughter.  Miss 
Farrell  had  several  times  been  unpardonably  rude 
to  the  poor  child  in  his  presence,  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  with  the  express  object  of  showing  him  how 
little  she  cared  to  keep  on  friendly  terms  with 
him. 

Nevertheless — he  found  himself  puzzling  over 
certain  other  incidents  in  his  recent  ken,  of  a  differ- 
ent character.  The  hospital  at  Carton  was  mainly 
for  privates,  with  a  certain  amount  of  accommoda- 
tion for  officers.  He  had  done  his  best  during  the 
summer  to  be  useful  to  some  poor  fellows,  especially 
of  his  own  regiment,  on  the  Tommies'  side.  And 
he  had  lately  come  across  some  perplexing  signs  of 


'MISSING'  143 

a  special  thoughtfulness  on  Miss  Farrell's  part  for 
these  particular  men.  He  had  discovered  also  that 
she  had  taken  pains  to  keep  these  small  kindnesses 
of  hers  from  his  knowledge. 

4 1  wasn't  to  tell  you,  sir,' — said  the  boy  who  had 
lost  an  eye — '  not  whatever.  But  when  you  come 
along  with  them  things ' — a  set  of  draughts  and  a 
book — '  why  it  do  seem  as  though  I  be  gettin'  more 
than  my  share  !  ' 

Well,  she  had  always  been  incomprehensible — 
and  he  was  weary  of  the  attempt  to  read  her.  But 
he  wanted  a  home — he  wanted  to  marry.  He 
began  to  think  again — in  leisurely 'fashion — of  the 
Rector's  granddaughter. 

Was  that  Mrs.  Sarratt  descending  the  side-lane? 
The  sight  of  her  recalled  his  thoughts  instantly  to 
the  war,  and  to  a  letter  he  had  received  that  morn- 
ing from  a  brother  officer  just  arrived  in  London  on 
medical  leave — the  letter  of  a  *  grouser '  if  ever 
there  was  one. 

*  They  say  that  this  week  is  to  see  another  big 
push — the  French  probably  in  Champagne,  and  we 
south  of  Bethune.  I  know  nothing  first-hand,  but 
I  do  know  that  it  can  only  end  in  a  few  kilometres 
of  ground,  huge  casualties, — and,  as  you  were !  We 
are  not  ready — we  can't  be  ready  for  months.  On 
the  other  hand  we  must  keep  moving — if  only  to  kill 
a  few  Germans,  and  keep  our  own  people  at  home  in 
heart.  I  passed  some  of  the  Lanchesters  on  my 
way  down — going  up,  as  fresh  as  paint  after  three 


144  'MISSING' 

weeks'  rest — what's  left  of  them.  They're  sure  to 
be  in  it.' 

The  little  figure  in  the  mauve  cotton  had  paused 
at  the  entrance  to  the  lane,  perceiving  him. 

What  about  Sarratt?  Had  she  heard?  He  hur- 
ried on  to  meet  her,  and  put  his  question. 

4  There  can't  be  any  telegram  yet,'  she  said,  her 
pale  cheeks  flushing.  '  But  it  will  come  to-night. 
Shall  we  go  back  quickly?' 

They  walked  on  rapidly.  He  soon  found  she  did 
not  want  to  talk  of  the  news,  and  he  was  driven 
back  on  the  weather. 

1  What  a  bless'ing  to  see  the  sun  again !  this  west 
country  damp  demoralises  me.' 

'I  think  I  like  it!' 

He  laughed. 

1  Do  you  only  "  say  that  to  annoy  "  ?  ' 

4  No,  I  do  like  it !  I  like  to  see  the  rain  shutting 
out  everything,  so  that  one  can't  make  any  plans — 
or  go  anywhere.'  She  smiled,  but  he  was  well  aware 
of  the  fever  in  her  look.  He  had  not  seen  it  there 
since  the  weeks  immediately  following  Sarratt's  de- 
parture. His  heart  warmed  to  the  frail  creature, 
tremulous  as  a  leaf  in  the  wind,  yet  making  a  show 
of  courage.  He  had  often  asked  himself  whether 
he  would  wish  to  be  loved  as  Mrs.  Sarratt  evi- 
dently loved  her  husband;  whether  he  could  possibly 
meet  such  a  claim  upon  his  own  sensibility.  But 
to-day  he  thought  he  could  meet  it;  to-day  he 
thought  it  would  be  agreeable. 


'MISSING'  145 

Nelly  had  not  told  Marsworth  however  -uat  one 
reason  for  which  she  liked  the  rain  was  that  it  had 
temporarily  put  an  end  to  the  sketching  lessons. 
Nor  could  she  have  added  that  this  new  distaste 
in  her,  as  compared  with  the  happy  stir  of  fresh 
or  quickened  perception,  which  had  been  the  result 
of  his  early  teaching,  was  connected,  not  only  wfh 
Sir  William — but  with  Bridget — her  sister  Bridget. 

But  the  truth  was  that  something  in  Bridget's 
manner,  very  soon  after  the  Carton  visit,  had  begun 
to  perplex  and  worry  the  younger  sister.  Why  was 
Bridget  always  insisting  on  the  lessons? — always 
ready  to  scold  Nelly  if  one  was  missed — and  always 
practising  airs  and  graces  with  Sir  William  that  she 
wasted  on  no  one  else  ?  Why  was  she  so  frequently 
away  on  the  days  when  Sir  William  was  expected? 
Nelly  had  only  just  begun  to  notice  it,  and  to  fall 
back  instinctively  on  Miss  Martin's  company  when- 
ever it  could  be  had.  She  hated  her  own  vague 
annoyance  with  Bridget's  behaviour,  just  because 
she  could  not  pour  herself  out  to  George  about  it. 
It  was  really  too  silly  and  stupid  to  talk  about.  She 
supposed — she  dreaded — that  Bridget  might  be  go- 
ing to  ask  Sir  William  some  favour;  that  she  meant 
to  make  use  of  his  kindness  to  her  sister  in  order 
to  work  upon  him.  How  horrible  that  would  be ! — 
how  it  would  spoil  everything!  Nelly  began  some- 
times to  dream  of  moving,  of  going  to  Borrowdale, 
or  to  the  coast  at  Scascale.  And  then,  partly  her 
natural  indolence,  and  partly  her  clinging  to  every 


i46  'MISSING' 

rock  and  field  in  this  beautiful  place  where  she  had 
been  so  happy,  intervened;  and  she  let  things  slide. 

Yet  when  Sir  William  and  Cicely  arrived,  to  find 
Bridget  making  tea,  and  Nelly  listening  with  a  little 
frown  of  effort,  while  Marsworth,  pencil  in  hand, 
was  drawing  diagrams  a  la  Belloc,  to  explain  to  her 
the  Russian  retreat  from  Galicia,  how  impossible 
not  to  feel  cheered  by  Farrell's  talk  and  company! 
The  great  bon  enfant,  towering  in  the  little  room, 
and  positively  lighting  it  up  by  the  red-gold  of  his- 
hair  and  beard,  so  easily  entertained,  so  overflow- 
ing with  kind  intentions,  so  fastidious  intellectually, 
and  so  indulgent  morally: — as  soon  as  he  appeared 
he  filled  the  scene. 

'  No  fresh  news,  dear  Mrs.  Sarratt,  nothing 
whatever,'  he  said  at  once,  meeting  her  hungry 
eyes.  *  And  you  ?  ' 

She  shook  her  head. 

'  Don't  worry.  You'll  get  it  soon.  I've  sent  the 
motor  back  to  Windermere  for  the  evening  papers/ 

Meanwhile  Marsworth  found  himself  reduced  to 
watching  Cicely,  and  presently  he  found  himself 
more  angry  and  disgusted  than  he  had  ever  yet  been. 
How  could  she?  How  dared  she?  On  this  day 
of  all  days,  to  be  snobbishly  playing  the  great  lady 
in  Mrs.  Sarratt's  small  sitting-room!  Whenever 
that  was  Cicely's  mood  she  lisped;  and  as  often  as 
Marsworth,  who  was  sitting  far  away  from  her, 
talking  to  Bridget  Cookson,  caught  her  voice,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  was  lisping — affectedly — 


'MISSING'  147 

monstrously.  She  was  describing  for  instance  a  cer- 
tain ducal  household  in  which  she  had  just  been 
spending  the  week-end,  and  Marsworth  heard  her 
say— 

'Well  at  last,  poor  Evelyn'  ('poor  Evelyn' 
seemed  to  be  a  youthful  Duchess,  conducting  a  war 
economy  campaign  through  the  villages  of  her  hus- 
band's estate),  'began  to  get  threatening  letters. 
She  found  out  afterwards  they  came  from  a  nurse- 
maid she  had  sent  away.  "  Madam,  don't  you  talk 
to  us,  but  look  at  'ome !  examine  your  own  nursewy, 
Madam,  and  hold  your  tongue !  "  She  did  examine, 
and  I  found  her  cwying.  "  Oh,  Cicely,  isn't  it 
awful,  I've  just  discovered  that  Nurse  has  been 
spending  seven  pounds  a  week  on  Baby's  wibbons !  " 
So  she's  given  up  war  economy ! ' 

'Why  not  the  "wibbons?"'  said  Hester  Mar- 
tin, who  had  just  come  in  and  heard  the  tale. 

'  Because  nobody  gives  up  what  they  weally  want 
to  have,'  said  Cicely  promptly,  with  a  more  affected 
voice  and  accent  than  before. 

Bridget  pricked  up  her  ears  and  nodded  trium- 
phantly towards  Nelly. 

'  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Cicely,'  said  Farrell. 
'Why,  the  Duchess  has  planted  the  whole  rose- 
garden  with  potatoes,  and  sold  all  her  Pekinese.' 

'  Only  because  she  was  tired  of  the  Pekinese,  and 
has  so  many  flowers  she  doesn't  know  what  to  do 
with  them!  On  the  other  hand  the  Duke  wants 
parlour-maids;  and  whenever  he  says  so,  Evelyn 


148  'MISSING1 

draws  all  the  blinds  down  and  goes  to  bed.  And 
that  annoys  him  so  much  that  he  gives  in !  Don't  you 
talk,  Willy.  The  Duchess  always  gets  wound  you ! ' 

'  I  don't  care  twopence  about  her,'  said  Farrell, 
rather  savagely.  '  What  does  she  matter?  '  Then 
he  moved  towards  Nelly,  whose  absent  look  and 
drooping  attitude  he  had  been  observing  for  some 
minutes. 

'Shan't  we  go  down  to  the  Lake,  Mrs.  Sarratt? 
It  seems  really  a  fine  evening  at  last,  and  there  won't 
be  so  many  more.  Let  me  carry  some  shawls. 
Marsworth,  lend  a  hand.' 

Soon  they  were  all  scattered  along  the  edge  of 
the  Lake.  Hester  Martin  had  relieved  Marsworth 
of  Bridget;  Farrell  had  found  a  dry  rock,  and 
spread  a  shawl  upon  It  for  Nelly's  benefit.  Mars- 
worth  and  Cicely  had  no  choice  but  to  pair;  and  she, 
with  a  grey  hat  and  plume  half  a  yard  high,  pre- 
posterously short  skirts,  and  high-heeled  boots  but- 
toned to  the  knee,  condescended  to  stroll  beside  him, 
watching  his  grave  embarrassed  look  with  an  air  of 
detachment  as  dramatically  complete  as  she  could 
make  it. 

'  You  look  awfully  tired ! '  said  Farrell  to  his 
companion,  eyeing  her  with  most  sincere  concern. 
*  I  wonder  what  you've  been  doing  to  yourself.' 

1  I'm  all  right,'  she  said  with  emphasis.  '  Indeed 
I'm  all  right.  You  said  you'd  sent  for  the  papers?  ' 

*  The  motor  will  wait  for  them  at  Windermere. 


'MISSING'  149 

But  I  don't  think  there'll  be  much  more  to  hear. 
I'm  afraid  weVe  shot  our  bolt.' 

She  clasped  her  hands  listlessly  on  her  knee,  and 
said  nothing. 

'Are  you  quite  sure  Sarratt  has  been  in  it?'  he 
asked  her. 

'  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sure.' 

There  was  a  dull  conviction  in  her  voice.  She 
began  to  pluck  at  the  grass  beside  her,  while  her 
dark  contracted  eyes  swept  the  Lake  in  front  of  her 
— seeing  nothing. 

'  Good  God ! ' — thought  Farrell — (  Are  they  all 
— all  the  women — suffering  like  this  ?  ' 

1  You'll  get  a  telegram  from  him  to-morrow,  I'm 
certain  you  will ! '  he  said,  with  eager  kindness. 
'  Try  and  look  forward  to  it.  You  know  the  good 
chances  are  five  to  one.' 

*  Not  for  a  lieutenant,'  she  said,  under  her  breath. 
'  They  have  to  lead  their  men.    They  can't  think  of 
their  own  lives.' 

There  was  silence  a  little.  Then  Farrell  said — 
floundering,  '  He'd  want  you  to  bear  up !  ' 

' 1  am  bearing  up ! '  she  said  quickly,  a  little 
resentfully. 

*  Yes,  indeed  you  are ! '    He  touched  her  arm  a 
moment  caressingly,  as  though  in  apology.     It  was 
natural  to  his   emotional  temperament  to  express 
itself  so — through  physical  gesture.    But  Nelly  dis- 
liked the  touch. 

*  I  only  meant ' — Farrell  continued,  anxiously — 


150  'MISSING' 

1  that  he  would  beg  you  not  to  anticipate  trouble 
— not  to  go  to  meet  it.' 

She  summoned  smiles,  altering  her  position  a  lit- 
tle, and  drawing  a  wrap  round  her.  The  delicate 
arm  was  no  longer  within  his  reach. 

And  restlessly  she  began  to  talk  of  other  things — 
the  conscientious  objectors  of  the  morning — Zep- 
pelins— a  recruiting  meeting  at  Ambleside.  Farrell 
had  the  impression  of  a  wounded  creature  that 
could  not  bear  to  be  touched;  and  it  was  something 
new  to  his  prevailing  sense  of  power  in  life,  to  be 
made  to  realise  that  he  could  do  nothing.  His 
sympathy  seemed  to  alienate  her;  and  he  felt  much 
distressed  and  rebuffed. 

Meanwhile  as  the  clouds  cleared  away  from 
the  September  afternoon,  Marsworth  and  Cicely 
were  strolling  along  the  Lake,  and  sparmng  as 
usual. 

He  had  communicated  to  her  his  intention  of 
leaving  Carton  within  a  week  or  so,  and  trying 
some  fresh  treatment  in  London. 

'You're  tired  of  us?'  she  enquired,  her  head 
very  much  in  air. 

'Not  at  all.  But  I  think  I  might  do  a  bit  of 
work.' 

'  The  doctors  don't  think  so.' 

'  Ah,  well — when  a  man's  got  to  my  stage,  he 
must  make  experiments  on  his  own.  It  won't  be 
France — I  know  that.  But  there's  lots  else.' 


'MISSING'  151 

I  You'll  break  down  in  a  week ! '  she  said  with 
energy.     *'I  had  a  talk  about  you  with  Seaton  yes- 
terday.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  amusement.  For  the 
moment,  she  was  no  longer  Cicely  Farrell,  extrava- 
gantly dressed,  but  the  shrewd  hospital  worker, 
who  although  she  would  accept  no  responsibility 
that  fettered  her  goings  and  comings  beyond  a  cer- 
tain point,  was  yet,  as  he  well  knew,  invaluable,  as 
a  force  in  the  background,  to  both  the  nursing  and 
medical  staff  of  Carton. 

'Well,  what  did  Seaton  say?' 

*  That  you  would  have  another  bad  relapse,  if 
you  attempted  yet  to  go  to  work.' 

I 1  shall  risk  it.' 

'  That's  so  like  you.  You  never  take  anyone's 
advice.' 

*  On  the  contrary,  I  am  the  meekest  and  most 
docile  of  men.'     She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'  You  were  docile,  I  suppose,  when  Seaton  begged 
you  not  to  go  off  to  the  Rectory,  and  give  yourself 
all  that  extra  walking  backwards  and  forwards  to 
the  hospital  every  day?' 

*  I  wanted  a   change   of  scene.     I  like  the  old 
Rector — I  even  like  family  prayers.' 

4 1  am  sure  everything — and  everybody — is  per- 
fect at  the  Rectory !  ' 

'  No — not  perfect — but  peaceable.' 

He  looked  at  her  smiling.  His  grey  eyes,  under 
their  strong  black  brows,  challenged  her.  She  per- 


152  'MISSING' 

ceived  in  them  a  whole  swarm  of  unspoken  charges. 
Her  own  colour  rose. 

'  So  peace  is  what  you  want?  ' 

4  Peace — and  a  little  sympathy.' 

'  And  we  give  you  neither  ?  ' 

He  hesitated. 

*  Willy  never  fails  one.' 

4  So  it's  my  crimes  that  are  driving  you  away? 
It's  all  to  be  laid  on  my  shoulders?  ' 

He  laughed — uncertainly. 

'  Don't  you  believe  me  when  I  say  I  want  to  do 
some  work  ? ' 

'Not  much.     So  I  have  offended  you?' 

His  look  changed,  became  grave — touched  with 
compunction. 

'  Miss  Farrell,  I  oughtn't  to  have  been  talking 
like  this.  You  and  Willy  have  been  awfully  good 
to  me.' 

*  And  then  you  call  me  "  Miss  Farrell  " ! '  she 
cried,  passionately — '  when  you  know  very  well  that 
you've  called  me  Cicely  for  years.' 

4  Hush ! '  said  Marsworth  suddenly,  '  what  was 
that?' 

He  turned  back  towards  Rydal.  On  the  shore 
path,  midway  between  them  and  the  little  bay  at 
the  eastern  end  of  the  lake,  where  Farrell  and  Nelly 
Sarratt  had  been  sitting,  were  Hester  Martin  and 
Bridget.  They  too  had  turned  round,  arrested  in 
their  walk.  Beyond  them,  at  the  edge  of  the  water, 
Farrell  could  be  seen  beckoning.  And  a  little  way 


'MISSING'  153 

behind  him  on  the  slope  stood  a  boy  with  a  bicycle. 

4  He  is  calling  us,'  said  Marsworth,  and  began  to 
run. 

Hester    Martin   was    already   running — Bridget 
too. 

But  Hester  and  Marsworth  outstripped  the  rest. 
Farrell  came  to  meet  them. 

*  Hester,  for  God's  sake,  get  her  sister ! ' 

4  What  is  it?  '  gasped  Hester.    '  Is  he  killed? ' 

'No — "  Wounded  and  missing!"     Poor,  poor 
child!' 

4  Where  is  she?' 

4  She's  sitting  there — dazed — with  the  telegram. 
She's  hardly  said  anything  since  it  came.' 

Hester  ran  on.     There  on  a  green  edge  of  the 
bank  sat  Nelly  staring  at  a  fluttering  piece  of  paper. 

Hester  sank  beside  her,  and  put  her  arms  round 
her. 

4  Dear  Mrs.  Sarratt!' 

4  What  does  it  mean?'  said  Nelly  turning  her 
white  face.     *  Read  it.' 

4  44  Deeply_regret  to  inform  you  your  husband 

jind  missing!  " 

That  mnm.    n  prinnner — Geotge  is 
a  prisoner — and  wounded!     Can't  ^  g-o  to  him? ' 

She  looked  piteously  at  Hester.     Bridget  had 
come  up  and  was  standing  near. 

4  If  he's  a  prisoner,  he's  in  a  German  hospital. 
Dear  Mrs.  Sarratt,  you'll  soon  hear  of  him ! ' 

Nelly  stood  up.     Her  young  beauty  of  an  hour 


154  'MISSING' 

before  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  her  like  the 
petals  of  a  rose.    She  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

I  But  I  shan't  see  him — again ' — she  said  slowly 
— '  till  the  end  of  the  war — the  end  of  the  war ' — 
she  repeated,  pressing  her  hands  on  her  eyes.    The 
note  of  utter  desolation  brought  the  tears  to  Hes- 
ter's cheeks.     But  before  she  could  say  anything, 
Nelly  had  turned  sharply  to  her  sister. 

*  Bridget,  I  must  go  up  to-night ! ' 

'  Must  you  ?  '  said  Bridget  reluctantly.  *  I  don't 
see  what  you  can  do.' 

*  I  can  go  to  the  War  Office — and  to  thatjglace 
where  they  make  enquiries  for  you.    Of  course^  I 
mast  go  to  London  1 — and  1  must  stay  there.    There 
might  be  news  of  him  any  time.' 

Bridget  and  "Hester  looked  at  each  other.  The 
same  thought  was  in  their  minds.  But  Nelly,  re- 
stored to  momentary  calmness  by  her  own  sugges- 
tion, went  quickly  to  Farrell,  who  with  his  sister  and 
Marsworth  was  standing  a  little  way  off. 

I 1  must  go  to   London   to-night,   Sir  William. 
Could  you  order  something  for  me?' 

'  I'll  take  you  to  Windermere,  Mrs.  Sarratt,'  said 
Cicely  before  her  brother  could  reply.  *  The 
motor's  there  now.' 

'  No,  no,  Cicely,  I'll  take  Mrs.  Sarratt,'  said  Far- 
rell impatiently.  '  I'll  send  back  a  car  from  Amble- 
side,  for  you  and  Marsworth.' 

1  You  forget  Sir  George  Whitehead,'  said  Cicely 
quietly.  *  I'll  do  everything.' 


'MISSING'  155 

Sir  George  Whitehead  of  the  A.M.S.C.  was  ex- 
pected at  Carton  that  evening  on  a  visit  of  inspec- 
tion to  the  hospital.  Farrell,  as  Commandant, 
could  not  possibly  be  absent.  He  acknowledged  the 
fact  by  a  gesture  of  annoyance.  Cicely  immediately 
took  things  in  charge. 

A  whirl  of  packing  and  departure  followed.  By 
the  time  she  and  her  charges  left  for  Windermere, 
Cicely's  hat  and  high  heels  had  been  entirely  blotted 
out  by  a  quite  extraordinary  display  on  her  part  of 
both  thoughtfulness  and  efficiency.  Marsworth  had 
seen  the  same  transformation  before,  but  never  so 
markedly.  He  tried  several  times  to  make  his  peace 
with  her;  but  she  held  aloof,  giving  him  once  or 
twice  an  odd  look  out  of  her  long  almond-shaped 
eyes. 

4  Good-bye,  and  good  luck ! '  said  Farrell  to 
Nelly,  through  the  car  window;  and  as  she  held  out 
her  hand,  he  stooped  and  kissed  it  with  a  gulp  in  his 
throat.  Her  deathly  pallor  and  a  grey  veil  thrown 
back  and  tied  under  her  small  chin  gave  her  a 
ghostly  loveliness  which  stamped  itself  on  his  recol- 
lection. 

'  I  am  going  up  to  town  myself  to-morrow.  I 
shall  come  and  see  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you.' 

1  Thank  you,'  said  Nelly  mechanically.  *  Oh  yes, 
I  shall  have  thought  of  many  things  by  then.  Good- 
bye.' 

Marsworth  and  Farrell  were  left  to  watch  the 
disappearance  of  the  car  along  the  moonlit  road. 


i56  'MISSING' 

4  Poor  little  soul ! '  said  Farrell — '  poor  little 
soul ! '  He  walked  on  along  the  road,  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.  Marsworth  offered  him  a  cigar,  and 
they  smoked  in  silence. 

'  What'll  the  next  message  be?'  said  Farrell, 
after  a  little  while.  '  "  Reported  wounded  and  miss- 
ing— now  reported  killed  "  ?  Most  probable  1 ' 

Marsworth  assented  sadly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  a  pale  September  day.  In  the  country, 
among  English  woods  and  heaths  the  sun  was 
still  strong,  and  trees  and  bracken,  withered 
heath,  and  reddening  berries,  burned  and  sparkled 
beneath  it.  But  in  the  dingy  bedroom  of  a  dingy 
Bloomsbury  hotel,  with  a  film  of  fog  over  every- 
thing outside,  there  was  no  sun  to  be  seen;  the  plane 
trees  beyond  the  windows  were  nearly  leafless;  and 
the  dead  leaves  scudding  and  whirling  along  the 
dusty,  airless  streets,  under  a  light  wind,  gave  the 
last  dreary  touch  to  the  scene  that  Nelly  Sarratt  was 
looking  at.  She  was  standing  at  a  window,  listlessly 
staring  at  some  houses  opposite,  and  the  unlovely 
strip  of  garden  which  lay  between  her  and  the 
houses.  Bridget  Cookson  was  sitting  at  a  table  a 
little  way  behind  her,  mending  some  gloves. 

The  sisters  had  been  four  days  in  London.  For 
Nelly,  life  was  just  bearable  up  to  five  or  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening  because  of  her  morning  and  after- 
noon visits  to  the  Enquiry  Office  in  D Street, 

where  everything  that  brains  and  pity  could  suggest 
was  being  done  to  trace  the  *  missing';  where  sat 
also  that  kind,  tired  woman,  at  the  table  which 
Nelly  by  now  knew  so  well,  with  her  pitying  eyes, 
and  her  soft  voice,  which  never  grew  perfunctory 
157 


i58  'MISSING' 

or  careless.  *  I'm  so  sorry ! — but  there's  no  fresh 
news/  That  had  been  the  evening  message;  and 
now  the  day's  hope  was  over,  and  the  long  night 
had  to  be  got  through. 

That  morning,  however,  there  had  been  news — a 
letter  from  Sarratt's  Colonel,  enclosing  letters  from 
two  privates,  who  had  seen  Sarratt  go  over  the 
parapet  in  the  great  rush,  and  one  of  whom  had 
passed  him — wounded — on  the  ground  and  tried  to 
stay  by  him.  But  *  Lieutenant  Sarratt  wouldn't 
allow  it.'  *  Never  mind  me,  old  chap  ' — one  witness 
reported  him  as  saying.  4  Get  on.  They'll  pick  me 
up  presently.'  And  there  they  had  left  him,  and 
knew  no  more. 

Several  other  men  were  named,  who  had  also 
seen  him  fall,  but  they  had  not  yet  been  traced. 
They  might  be  in  hospital  badly  wounded,  or  if 
Sarratt  had  been  made  prisoner,  they  had  probably 
shared  his  fate.  *  And  if  your  husband  has  been 
taken  prisoner,  as  we  all  hope,'  said  the  gentle 
woman  at  the  office — *  it  will  be  at  least  a  fortnight 
before  we  can  trace  him.  Meanwhile  we  are  going 
on  with  all  other  possible  enquiries.' 

Nelly  had  those  phrases  by  heart.  The  phrases 
too  of  that  short  letter — those  few  lines — the  last 
she  had  ever  received  from  George,  written  two 
days  before  the  battle,  which  had  reached  her  in 
Westmorland  before  her  departure. 

That  letter  lay  now  on  her  bosom,  just  inside 
the  folds  of  her  blouse,  where  her  hand  could  rest 


'MISSING'  159 

upon  it  at  any  moment.  How  passionately  she  had 
hoped  for  another,  a  fragment  perhaps  torn  from 
his  notebook  in  the  trenches,  and  sent  back  by  some 
messenger  at  the  last  moment!  She  had  heard  of 
that  happening  to  so  many  others.  Why  not  to  her ! 
— oh,  why  not  to  her? 

Her  heart  was  dry  with  longing  and  grief;  her 
eyes  were  red  for  want  of  sleep.  There  were  strange 
numb  moments  when  she  felt  nothing,  and  could 
hardly  remember  why  she  was  in  London.  And  then 
would  come  the  sudden  smart  of  reviving  conscious- 
ness— the  terrible  returns  of  an  anguish,  under  which 
her  whole  being  trembled.  And  always,  at  the  back 
of  everything,  the  dull  thought — *  I  always  knew  it — 
I  knew  he  would  die! ' — recurring  again  and  again; 
only  to  be  dashed  away  by  a  protest  no  less  persistent 
— '  No,  no !  He  is  not  dead! — not  dead!  In  a  fort- 
night— she  said  so — there'll  be  news — they'll  have 
found  him.  Then  he'll  be  recovering — and  prison- 
ers are  allowed  to  write.  Oh,  my  George! — my 
George ! ' 

It  was  with  a  leap  of  ecstasy  that  yet  was  pain, 
that  she  imagined  to  herself  the  coming  of  the  first 
word  from  him.  Prisoners'  letters  came  regularly — 
no  doubt  of  that.  Why,  the  landlady  at  the  hotel 
had  a  son  who  was  at  Ruhleben,  and  she  heard  once 
a  month.  Nelly  pictured  the  moment  when  the  let- 
ter would  be  in  her  hand,  and  she  would  be  looking 
at  it.  Oh,  no  doubt  it  wouldn't  be  addressed  by 
him!  By  the  nurse  perhaps — a  German  nurse — or 


160  'MISSING' 

another  patient.  He  mightn't  be  well  enough.  All 
the  same,  the  dream  filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  that 
for  a  moment  eased  the  burning  within. 

Her  life  was  now  made  up  of  such  moments  and 
dreams.  On  the  whole,  what  held  her  most  was  the 
fierce  refusal  to  think  of  him  as  dead.  That  morn- 
ing, in  dressing,  among  the  clothes  they  had  hurriedly 
brought  with  them  from  Westmorland,  she  saw  a 
thin  black  dress — a  useful  stand-by  in  the  grime  of 
London — and  lifted  her  hands  to  take  it  from  the 
peg  on  which  it  hung.  Only  to  recoil  from  it  with 
horror.  That — never !  And  she  had  dressed  herself 
with  care  in  a  coat  and  skirt  of  rough  blue  tweed 
that  George  had  always  liked;  scrupulously  putting 
on  her  little  ornaments,  and  taking  pains  with  her 
hair.  And  at  every  step  of  the  process,  she  seemed 
to  be  repelling  some  attacking  force ;  holding  a  door 
with  all  her  feeble  strength  against  some  horror  that 
threatened  to  come  in. 

The  room  in  which  she  stood  was  small  and  cheer- 
less ;  but  it  was  all  they  could  afford.  Bridget  frankly 
hated  the  ugliness  and  bareness  of  it;  hated  the  dingy 
hotel,  and  the  slatternly  servants,  hated  the  boredom 
of  the  long  waiting  for  news  to  which  apparently 
she  was  to  be  committed,  if  she  stayed  on  with 
Nelly.  She  clearly  saw  that  public  opinion  would 
expect  her  to  stay  on.  And  indeed  she  was  not  with- 
out some  natural  pity  for  her  younger  sister.  There 
were  moments  when  Nelly's  state  caused  her  extreme 
discomfort — even  something  more.  But  when  they 


'MISSING'  161 

occurred,  she  banished  them  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
with  a  firm  will,  which  grew  the  firmer  with  exercise. 
It  was  everybody's  duty  to  keep  up  their  spirits  and 
not  to  be  beaten  down  by  this  abominable  war.  And 
it  was  a  special  duty  for  those  who  hated  the  war, 
and  would  stop  it  at  once  if  they  could.  Yet  Bridget 
had  entirely  declined  to  join  any  *  Stop  the  War,'  or 
pacifist  societies.  She  had  no  sympathy  with  *  that 
sort  of  people.'  Her  real  opinion  about  the  war  was 
that  no  cause  could  be  worth  such  wretched  incon- 
venience as  the  war  caused  to  everyone.  She  hated 
to  feel  and  know  that  probably  the  majority  of  decent 
people  would  say,  if  asked, — as  Captain  Marsworth 
had  practically  said — that  she,  Bridget  Cookson, 
ought  to  be  doing  V.A.D.  work,  or  relieving  munition- 
workers  at  week-ends,  instead  of  fiddling  with  an 
index  to  a  text-book  on  *  The  New  Psychology.'  The 
mere  consciousness  of  that  was  already  an  attack  on 
her  personal  freedom  to  do  what  she  liked,  which  she- 
hotly  resented.  And  as  to  that  conscription  of  women 
for  war-work  which  was  vaguely  talked  of,  Bridget 
passionately  felt  that  she  would  go  to  prison  rather 
than  submit  to  such  a  thing.  For  the  war  said  noth- 
ing whatever  to  her  heart  or  conscience.  All  the 
great  tragic  side  of  it — the  side  of  death  and  wounds 
and  tears — of  high  justice  and  ideal  aims — she  put 
away  from  her,  as  she  always  had  put  away  such 
things,  in  peace.  They  did  not  concern  her  per- 
sonally. Why  make  trouble  for  oneself? 

And  yet  here  was  a  sister  whose  husband  was 


162  'MISSING' 

1  wounded  and  missing ' — probably,  as  Bridget  firmly 
believed,  already  dead.  And  the  meaning  of  that 
fact — that  possibility — was  writ  so  large  on  Nelly's 
physical  aspect,  on  Nelly's  ways  and  plans,  that  there 
was  really  no  getting  away  from  it.  Also — there 
were  other  people  to  be  considered.  Bridget  did  not 
at  all  want  to  offend  or  alienate  Sir  William  Farrell 
— now  less  than  ever.  And  she  was  quite  aware  that 
he  would  think  badly  of  her,  if  he  suspected  she  was 
not  doing  her  best  for  Nelly. 

The  September  light  waned.  The  room  grew  so 
dark  that  Bridget  turned  on  an  electric  light  beside 
her,  and  by  the  help  of  it  stole  a  long  look  at  Nelly, 
who  was  still  standing  by  the  window.  Would  gricv- 
ing — would  the  loss  of  George — take  Nelly's  p.reiti- 
ness  away?  She  had  certainly  lost  flesh  during  the 
preceding  weeks  and  days.  Her  little  chin -was  very 
sharp,  as  Bridget  saw  it  against  the  window,  and  her 
hair  seemed  to  have.paxted  with  its  waves  and  curls, 
and  to  be  hanging  limp  about  her  ears.  Bridget 
felt  a  pang  of  annoyance  that  anything  should  spoil 
Nelly's  good  looks.  It  was  altogether  unnecessary 
and  absurd. 

Presently  Nelly  moved  back  towards  her  sister. 

1 1  don't  know  how  I  shall  get  through  the  next 
fortnight,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  '  I  wonder  what 
we  had  better  do?' 

1  Well,  we  can't  stay  here,'  said  Bridget  sharply. 
*  It's  too  expensive,  though  it  is  such  a  poky  hole. 
We  can  find  a  lodging,  I  suppose,  and  feed  ourselves. 


'MISSING'  163 

Unless  of  course  we  went  back  to  Westmorland. 
Why  can't  you  ?    They  can  always  telegraph.' 

Nelly  flushed.  Her  hand  lying  on  the  back  of 
Bridget's  chair  shook. 

*  And  if  George  sent  for  me,'  she  said,  in  the 
same  low,  strained  voice,  '  it  would  take  eight  hours 
longer  to  get  to  him  than  it  would  from  here.' 

Bridget  said  nothing.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
felt  perfectly  certain  that  George  never  would  send. 
She  rose  and  put  down  her  needlework. 

*  I  must  go  and  post  a  letter  downstairs.     I'll 
ask  the  woman  in  the  office  if  she  knows  anything 
about  lodgings.' 

Nelly  went  back  to  her  post  by  the  window.  Her 
mind  was  bruised  between  two  conflicting  feelings 
— a  dumb  longing  for  someone  to  caress  and  com- 
fort her,  someone  who  would  meet  her  pain  with 
a  bearing  less  hard  and  wooden  than  Bridget's — 
and  at  the  same  time,  a  passionate  shrinking  from 
the  bare  idea  of  comfort  and  sympathy,  as  something 
not  to  be  endured.  She  had  had  a  kind  letter  from 
Sir  William  Farrell  that  morning.  He  had  spoken 
of  being  soon  in  London.  But  she  did  not  know  that 
she  could  bear  to  see  him — unless  he  could  help — get 
something  done! 

Bridget  descended  to  the  ground  floor,  and  had 
a  conversation  with  the  young  lady  in  the  office, 
which  threw  no  light  at  all  on  the  question  of  lodg- 
ings. The  young  lady  in  question  seemed  to  be  pat- 
ting and  pinning  up  her  back  hair  all  the  time, 


1 64  'MISSING' 

besides  carrying  on  another  conversation  with  a  sec- 
ond young  lady  in  the  background.  Bridget  was 
disgusted  with  her  and  was  just  going  upstairs  again, 
when  the  very  shabby  and  partly  deformed  hall 
porter  informed  her  that  someone — a  gentleman — 
was  waiting  to  see  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

A  gentleman?  Bridget  hastened  to  the  small  and 
stuffy  drawing-room,  where  the  hall  porter  had  just 
turned  on  the  light,  and  there  beheld  a  tall  bearded 
man  pacing  up  and  down,  who  turned  abruptly  as 
she  entered. 

1  How  is  she  ?    Is  there  any  news  ? ' 

Sir  William  Farrell  hurriedly  shook  her  offered 
hand,  frowning  a  little  at  the  sister  who  always 
seemed  to  him  inadequate  and  ill-mannered. 

*  Thank  you,  Sir  William ;  she  is  quite  well.   There 
is  a  little  news — but  nothing  of  any  consequence.' 

She  repeated  the  contents  of  the  hospital  letter, 
with  the  comments  on  it  of  the  lady  they  had  seen 
at  the  office. 

'  We  shan't  hear  anything  more  for  a  fortnight. 
They  have  written  to  Geneva.' 

4  Then  they  think  he's  a  prisoner?' 

Bridget  supposed  so. 

*  At  any  rate  they  hope  he  is.    Well,  I'm  thank- 
ful there's  no  worse  news.    Poor  thing — poor  little 
thing!    Is  she  bearing  up — eating? — sleeping?' 

He  asked  the  questions  peremptorily,  yet  with  a 
real  anxiety.  Bridget  vaguely  resented  the  peremp- 
toriness,  but  she  answered  the  questions.'  It  was 


'MISSING'  165 

very  difficult  to  get  Nelly  to  eat  anything,  and  Bridget 
did  not  believe  she  slept  much. 

Farrell  shook  his  head  impatiently,  with  various 
protesting  noises,  while  she  spoke.  Then  drawing  up 
suddenly,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  looked 
round  the  room  in  which  they  stood. 

*  But  why  are  you  staying  here  ?     It's  a  dread- 
ful hole!     That  porter  gave  me  the  creeps.    And 
it's  so  far  from  everywhere.' 

'There  is  a  tube  station  close  by.  We  stay  here 
because  it's  cheap,'  said  Bridget,  grimly. 

Sir  William  walked  up  the  room  again,  poking  his 
nose  into  the  moribund  geranium  that  stood,  flanked 
by  some  old  railway  guides,  on  the  middle  table, 
surveyed  the  dirty  and  ill-kept  writing-table,  the  un- 
comfortable chairs,  and  finally  went  to  look  out  of 
the  window;  after  which  he  suddenly  and  unaccount- 
ably brightened  up  and  turned  with  a  smile  to 
Bridget 

4  Do  you  think  you  could  persuade  your  sister 
to  do  something  that  would  please  me  very 
much  ? ' 

'  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Sir  William.' 

*  Well,  it's  this.     Cicely  and  I  have  a  flat  in  St. 
James'  Square.     I'm  there  very  little  just  now,  and 
she  less.    You  know  we're  both  awfully  busy  at  Car- 
ton.    We've  had  a  rush  of  wounded  the  last  few 
weeks.    I  must  be  up  sometimes  on  business  for  the 
hospital,  but  I  can  always  sleep  at  my  club.    So  what 
I  want  to  persuade  you  to  do,  Miss  Cookson,  is  to 


166  'MISSING' 

get  Mrs.  Sarratt  to  accept  the  loan  of  our  flat,  for 
a  few  weeks  while  she's  kept  in  town.  It  would  be 
a  real  pleasure  to  us.  We're  awfully  sorry  for  her! ' 

He  beamed  upon  her,  all  his  handsome  face  suf- 
fused with  kindness  and  concern. 

Bridget  was  amazed,  but  cautious. 

*  It's  awfully  good   of  you — but — shouldn't  we 
have  to  get  a  servant?    I  couldn't  do  everything.' 

Sir  William  laughed. 

*  Gracious — I  should  think  not !    There  are  always 
servants  there — it's  kept  ready  for  us.    I  put  in  a 
discharged  soldier — an  army  cook  and  his  wife — a 
few  months  ago.    They're  capital  people.    I'm  sure 
they'd  look  after  you.    Well  now,  will  you  suggest 
that  to  Mrs.  Sarratt?    Could  I  see  her? ' 

Bridget  hesitated.  Some  instinct  told  her  that 
Nelly  would  not  wish  to  accept  this  proposal.  She 
said  slowly — 

'  I'm  afraid  she's  very  tired  to-night.' 

'Oh,  don't  bother  her  then!  But  just  try  and 
persuade  her — won't  you — quietly  ?  And  send  me  a 
word  to-night.' 

He  gave  the  address. 

'  If  I  hear  that  you'll  come,  I'll  make  all  the 
arrangements  to-morrow  morning  before  I  leave  for 
Westmorland.  You  can  just  take  her  round  in  a 
taxi  any  time  you  like,  and  the  servants  will  be 

quite  ready  for  you.  You'll  be  close  to  D Street 

— close  to  everything.  Now  do  I ' 

He  stood  with  his  hands  on  his  side  looking  down 


'MISSING'  167 

eagerly  and  a  little  sharply  on  the  hard-featured 
woman  before  him. 

1  It's  awfully  good  of  you,'  said  Bridget  again — 
4  most  awfully  good.  Of  course  I'll  tell  Nelly  what 
you  say.' 

*  And  drop  me  a  line  to-night? ' 
1  Yes,  I'll  write.' 

Sir  William  took  up  his  stick. 

*  Well,  I  shall  put  everything  in  train.    Tell  her, 
please,  what  a  pleasure  she'd  give  us.    And  she  won't 
keep  Cicely  away.    Cicely  will  be  up  next  week.    But 
there's  plenty  of  room.    She  and  her  maid  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  to  you.    And  please  tell  Mrs. 
Sarratt  too,   that  if  there's  anything  I   can  do — 
anything — she  has  only  to  let  me  know.' 

Bridget  went  back  to  the  room  upstairs.  As  she 
opened  the  door  she  saw  Nelly  standing  under  the 
electric  light — motionless.  Something  in  her  atti- 
tude startled  Bridget. 

She  called— 

'Nelly!' 

Nelly  turned  slowly,  and  Bridget  saw  that  she  had 
a  letter  in  her  hand.  Bridget  ran  up  to  her. 

1  Have  you  heard  anything?  ' 

*  He  did  write  to  me ! — he  did ! — just  the  last 
minute — in  the  trench.     I  knew  he  must.     He  gave 
it  to  an  engineer  officer  who  was  going  back  to  Head- 
quarters, to  post.    The  officer  was  badly  wounded 
as  he  went  back.    They've  sent  it  me  from  France. 


i68  'MISSING' 

The  waiter  brought  me  the  letter  just  after  you'd 
gone  down.' 

The  words  came  in  little  panting  gasps. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  slipped  down  beside  the  table 
at  which  Bridget  had  been  working,  and  hid  her  face. 
She  was  crying.  But  it  was  very  difficult  weeping — 
with  few  tears.  The  slight  frame  shook  from  top 
to  toe. 

Bridget  stood  by  her,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 
But  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  annoyance  that 
she  couldn't  begin  at  once  on  the  subject  of  the  flat. 
She  put  her  hand  awkwardly  on  her  sister's  shoulder. 

*  Don't  cry  so.    What  does  he  say?  ' 

Nelly  did  not  answer  for  a  little.  At  last  she  said, 
her  face  still  buried — 

*  It  was  only — to  tell  me — that  he  loved  me ' 

There  was  silence  again.    Then  Nelly  rose  to  her 

feet.    She  pressed  her  hair  back  from  her  white  face. 

' 1  don't  want  any  supper,  Bridget.  I  think — I 
should  like  to  go  to  bed.' 

Bridget  helped  her  to  undress.  It  was  now  nearly 
dark  and  she  drew  down  the  blinds.  When  she 
looked  again  at  Nelly,  she  saw  her  lying  white  and 
still,  her  wide  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 

'  I  found  a  visitor  downstairs,'  she  said,  abruptly. 
'  It  was  Sir  William  Farrell.' 

Nelly  shewed  no  surprise,  or  interest.  But  she 
seemed  to  find  some  words  mechanically. 

'Why  did  he  come?' 

Bridget  came  to  the  bedside. 


'MISSING'  169 

'  He  wants  us  to  go  and  stay  at  his  flat — their  flat. 
He  and  his  sister  have  it  together — in  St.  James' 
Square.  He  wants  us  to  go  to-morrow.  He's  going 
back  to  Carton.  There  are  two  servants  there.  We 
shouldn't  have  any  trouble.  And  you'd  be  close  to 

D Street.    Any  news  they  got  they  could  send 

round  directly.' 

Nelly  closed  her  eyes. 

'  I  don't  care  where  we  go,'  she  said,  under  her 
breath. 

'  He  wanted  a  line  to-night,'  said  Bridget — *  I  can't 
hear  of  any  lodgings.  And  the  boarding-houses  are 
all  getting  frightfully  expensive — because  food's  go- 
ing up  so.' 

'  Not  a  boarding-house ! '  murmured  Nelly.  A 
shiver  of  repulsion  ran  through  her.  She  was  think- 
ing of  a  boarding-house  in  one  of  the  Bloomsbury 
streets  where  she  and  Bridget  had  once  stayed  before 
her  marriage — the  long  tables  full  of  strange  faces — 
the  drawing-room  crowded  with  middle-aged  women, 
who  stared  so. 

'  Well,  I  can  write  to  him  to-night  then,  and  say 
we'll  go  to-morrow?  We  certainly  can't  stay  here. 
The  charges  are  abominable.  If  we  go  to  their  flat, 
for  a  few  days,  we  can  look  round  us  and  find  some- 
thing cheap.' 

1  Where  is  it? '  said  Nelly  faintly. 

'  In  St.  James'  Square.' 

The  address  conveyed  very  little  to  Nelly.     She 
knew  hardly  anything  of  London.    Two  visits — one 


i7o  'MISSING' 

to  some  cousins  in  West  Kensington,  another  to  a 
friend  at  Hampstead — together  with  the  fortnight 
three  years  ago  in  the  Bloomsbury  boarding-house, 
when  Bridget  had  had  some  grand  scheme  with  a 
publisher  which  never  came  off,  and  Nelly  had  mostly 
stayed  indoors  with  bad  toothache: — her  acquaint- 
ance with  the  great  city  had  gone  no  further.  Of 
its  fashionable  quarters  both  she  and  Bridget  were 
entirely  ignorant,  though  Bridget  would  not  have 
admitted  it. 

Bridget  got  her  writing-case  out  of  her  trunk  and 
began  to  write  to  Sir  William.  Nelly  watched  her. 
At  last  she  said  slowly,  as  though  she  were  becom- 
ing a  little  more  conscious  of  the  world  around 
her:— 

1  It's  awfully  kind  of  them.  But  we  needn't  stay 
long.' 

*  Oh  no,  we  needn't  stay  long.' 

Bridget  wrote  the  letter,  and  disappeared  to  post 
it.  Nelly  was  left  alone  in  darkness.  The  air  about 
her  seemed  to  be  ringing  with  the  words  of  her  letter. 

*  MY  OWN  DARLING, — We  are  just  going  over.    I 
have  found  a  man  going  back  to  D.H.Q.  who  will 
post  this — and  I  just  want  you  to  know  that,  what- 
ever happens,  you  are  my  beloved,  and  our  love 
can't  die.    God  bless  you,  my  dear,  dear  wife.  ... 
We  are  all  in  good  spirits — everything  ought  to  go 
well — and  I  will  write  the  first  moment  possible. 

'  GEORGE.' 


'MISSING'  171 

She  seemed  to  see  him,  tearing  the  leaf  from  the 
little  block  she  had  given  him,  and  standing  in  the 
trench,  so  slim  and  straight  in  his  khaki.  And  then, 
what  happened  after  ?  when  the  rush  came  ?  Would 
she  never  know?  If  he  never  came  back  to  her, 
what  was  she  going  to  do  with  her  life?  Waves  of 
lonely  terror  went  through  her — terror  of  the  long 
sorrow  before  her — terror  of  her  own  weakness. 

And  then  again — reaction.  She  sat  up  in  bed, 
angrily  wrestling  with  her  own  lapse  from  hope.  Of 
course  it  was  all  coming  right!  She  turned  on  the 
light,  with  a  small  trembling  hand,  and  tried  to  read 
a  newspaper  Bridget  had  brought  in.  But  the  words 
swam  before  her;  the  paper  dropped  from  her  grasp; 
and  when  Bridget  came  back,  her  face  was  hidden, 
she  seemed  to  be  asleep. 

'Is  this  it?'  said  Nelly,  looking  in  alarm  at  the 
new  and  splendid  house  before  which  the  taxi  had 
drawn  up. 

*  Well,  it's  the  right  number ! '  And  Bridget, 
rather  flurried,  looked  at  the  piece  of  paper  on  which 
Farrell  had  written  the  address  for  her,  the  night 
before. 

She  jumped  out  of  the  taxi  and  ran  up  some  marble 
steps  towards  a  glass  door  covered  with  a  lattice 
metal-work,  beyond  which  a  hall,  a  marble  staircase 
and  a  lift  shewed  dimly.  Inside,  a  porter  in  livery, 
at  the  first  sight  of  the  taxi,  put  down  the  newspaper 
he  was  reading,  and  hurried  to  the  door. 


i72  'MISSING' 

'  Is  this  Sir  William  Farrell's  flat?  '  asked  Bridget. 

'  It's  all  right,  Miss.  They're  expecting  you.  Sir 
William  went  off  this  morning.  I  was  to  tell  you  he 
had  to  go  down  to  Aldershot  to-day  on  business,  but 
he  hoped  to  look  in  this  evening,  on  his  way  to  Eus- 
ton,  to  see  that  you  had  everything  comfortable.' 

Reluctantly,  and  with  a  feeble  step,  Nelly 
descended,  helped  by  the  porter. 

4  Oh,  Bridget,  I  wish  we  hadn't  come ! '  She 
breathed  it  into  her  sister's  ear,  as  they  stood  to- 
gether in  the  hall,  waiting  for  the  lift  which  had 
been  called.  Bridget  shut  her  lips  tightly,  and  said 
nothing. 

The  lift  carried  them  up  to  the  third  floor,  and 
there  at  the  top  the  ex-army  cook  and  his  wife  were 
waiting,  a  pair  of  stout  and  comfortable  people,  all 
smiles  and  complaisance.  The  two  small  trunks  were 
shouldered  by  the  man,  and  the  woman  led  the  way. 

*  Lunch  will  be  ready  directly,  Ma'am/  she  said 
to  Nelly,  who  followed  her  in  bewilderment  across 
a  hall  panelled  in  marble  and  carpeted  with  some- 
thing red  and  soft. 

*  Sir  William  thought  you  would  like   it  about 
one  o'clock.    And  this  is  your  room,  please,  Ma'am 
— unless  you  would  like  anything  different.    It's  Miss 
Farrell's  room.     She  always  likes  the  quiet  side. 
And  I've  put  Miss  Cookson  next  door.    I  thought 
you'd  wish  to  be  together?  ' 

Nelly  entered  a  room  furnished  in  white  and  pale 
green,  luxurious  in  every  detail,  and  hung  with 


'MISSING'  173 

engravings  after  Watteau  framed  in  white  wood. 
Through  an  open  door  shewed  another  room  a  little 
smaller,  but  equally  dainty  and  fresh  in  all  its  ap- 
pointments. Bridget  tripped  briskly  through  the 
open  door,  looked  around  her  and  deposited  her  bag 
upon  the  bed.  Nelly  meanwhile  was  being  shewn 
the  green-tiled  and  marble-floored  bathroom  attached 
to  her  room,  Mrs.  Simpson  chattering  on  the  various 
improvements  and  subtleties,  which  *  Miss  Cicely ' 
had  lately  commanded  there. 

4  But  I'm  sure  you'll  be  wanting  your  lunch, 
Ma'am/  said  the  woman  at  last,  venturing  a  com- 
passionate glance  at  the  pale  young  creature  beside 
her.  '  It'll  be  ready  in  five  minutes.  I'll  tell  Simp- 
son he  can  serve  it.' 

She  disappeared,  and  Nelly  sank  into  a  chair. 
Why  had  they  come  to  this  place  ?  Her  whole  nature 
was  in  revolt.  The  gaiety  and  luxury  of  the  flat 
seemed  to  rise  up  and  reproach  her.  What  was  she 
doing  in  such  surroundings  ? — when  George — Oh,  it 
was  hateful — hateful !  She  thought  with  longing  of 
the  little  bare  room  in  the  Rydal  lodgings,  where  they 
had  been  happy  together. 

*  Well,  are  you  ready?  '  said  Bridget,  bustling  in. 
*  Do   take   off  your   things.    You   look   absolutely 
done  up ! ' 

Nelly  rose  slowly,  but  her  face  had  flushed. 

*  I  can't  stay  here,  Bridget ! '  she  said  with  energy 
— '  I  can't !    I  don't  know  why  we  came.' 

*  Because  we  were  asked,'  said  Bridget  calmly. 


i74  'MISSING' 

*  We  can  stay,  I  think,  for  a  couple  of  days,  can't 
we,  till  we  find  something  else?  Where  are  your 
brushes  ? ' 

r~  And  she  began  vigorously  unpacking  for  her  sis- 
ter, helplessly  watched  by  Nelly.  They  had  just 

come  from  D Street,  where  Nelly  had  been 

shewn  various  letters  and  telegrams;  but  nothing 
which  promised  any  real  further  clue  to  George  Sar- 
ratt's  fate.  He  had  been  seen  advancing — seen 
wounded — by  at  least  a  dozen  men  of  the  regiment, 
and  a  couple  of  officers,  all  of  whom  had  now  been 
communicated  with.  But  the  wave  of  the  counter- 
attack— temporarily  successful — had  rushed  over  the 
same  ground  before  the  British  gains  had  been  finally 

\  consolidated,  and  from  that  fierce  and  confused  fight- 
ing there  came  no  further  word  of  George  Sarratt. 
It  was  supposed  that  in  the  final  German  retreat  he 
had  been  swept  up  as  a  German  prisoner.  He  was 
not  among  the  dead  found  and  buried  by  an  English 
search  party  on  the  following  day — so  much  had 
been  definitely  ascertained. 

The  friendly  volunteer  in  D Street — whose 

name  appeared  to  be  Miss  Eustace — had  tried  to  in- 
sist with  Nelly  that  on  the  whole,  and  so  far,  the  news 
collected  was  not  discouraging.  At  least  there  was  no 
verification  of  death.  And  for  the  rest,  there  were 
always  the  letters  from  Geneva  to  wait  for.  '  One 
must  be  patient,'  Miss  Eustace  had  said  finally. 
1  These  things  take  so  long !  But  everybody's  doing 
their  best.'  And  she  had  grasped  Nelly's  cold  hands 


'MISSING'  175 

in  hers,  long  and  pityingly.  Her  own  fine  aquiline 
face  seemed  to  have  grown  thinner  and  more  strained 
even  since  Nelly  had  known  it.  She  often  worked  in 
the  office,  she  said,  up  to  midnight. 

All  these  recollections  and  passing  visualisations 
of  words  and  faces,  drawn  from  those  busy  rooms  a 
few  streets  off,  in  which  not  only  George  Sarratt's 
fate,  but  her  own,  as  it  often  seemed  to  Nelly,  were 
being  slowly  and  inexorably  decided,  passed  endlessly 
through  her  brain,  as  she  mechanically  took  off  her 
things,  and  brushed  her  hair. 

Presently  she  was  following  Bridget  across  the  hall 
to  the  drawing-room.  Bridget  seemed  already  to 
know  all  about  the  flat.  *  The  dining-room  opens  out 
of  the  drawing-room.  It's  all  Japanese,'  she  said 
complaisantly,  turning  back  to  her  sister.  *  Isn't  it 
jolly?  Miss  Farrell  furnished  it.  Sir  William  let 
her  have  it  all  her  own  way.' 

Nelly  looked  vaguely  round  the  drawing-room, 
which  had  a  blue  Persian  carpet,  pale  purple  walls, 
hung  with  Japanese  colour  prints,  a  few  chairs,  one 
comfortable  sofa,  a  couple  of  Japanese  cabinets,  and 
pots  of  Japanese  lilies  in  the  corners.  It  was  a  room 
not  meant  for  living  in.  There  was  not  a  book  in 
it  anywhere.  It  looked  exactly  what  it  was — a 
perching-place  for  rich  people,  who  liked  their  own 
ways,  and  could  not  be  bored  with  hotels. 

The  dining-room  was  equally  bare,  costly,  and 
effective.  Its  only  ornament  was  a  Chinese  Buddha, 
a  great  terra-cotta,  marvellously  alive,  which  had 


I76  'MISSING' 

been  looted  from  some  Royal  tomb,  and  now  sat 
serenely  out  of  place,  looking  over  the  dainty 
luncheon-table  to  the  square  outside,  and  wrapt  in 
dreams  older  than  Christianity. 

The  flat  was  nominally  lent  to  *  Mrs.  Sarratt,'  but 
Bridget  was  managing  everything,  and  had  never 
felt  so  much  in  her  element  in  her  life.  She  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  helped  Nelly,  gave  all  the 
orders,  and  was  extraordinarily  brisk  and  cheerful. 

Nelly  scarcely  touched  anything,  and  Mrs.  Simp- 
son who  waited  was  much  concerned. 

4  Perhaps  you'd  tell  Simpson  anything  you  could 
fancy,  Madam,'  she  said  anxiously  in  Nelly's  ear,  as 
she  handed  the  fruit.  Nelly  must  needs  smile  when 
anyone  spoke  kindly  to  her.  She  smiled  now,  though 
very  wearily. 

*  Why,  it's  all  beautiful,  thank  you.    But  I'm  not 
hungry.' 

*  We'll  have  coffee  in  the  drawing-room,  please, 
Mrs.  Simpson,'  said  Bridget  rising — a  tall  masterful 
figure,  in  a  black  silk  dress,  which  she  kept  for  best 
occasions.    *  Now  Nelly,  you  must  rest.' 

Nelly  let  herself  be  put  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Bridget — after  praising  the  coffee,  the 
softness  of  the  chairs,  the  beauty  of  the  Japanese 
lilies,  and  much  speculation  on  the  value  of  the  Per- 
sian carpet  which,  she  finally  decided,  was  old  and 
priceless — announced  that  she  was  going  for  a  walk. 

'Why  don't  you  come  too,  Nelly?  Come  and 
look  at  the  shops.  You  shouldn't  mope  all  day  long. 


'MISSING'  177 

If  they  do  send  for  you  to  nurse  George,  you  won't 
have  the  strength  of  a  cat.' 

But  Nelly  had  shrunk  into  herself.  She  said  she 
would  stay  in  and  write  a  letter  to  Hester  Martin. 
Presently  she  was  left  alone.  Mrs.  Simpson  had 
cleared  away,  and  shut  all  the  doors  between  the 
sitting-rooms  and  the  kitchen.  Inside  the  flat  noth- 
ing was  to  be  heard  but  the  clock  ticking  on  the 
drawing-room  mantelpiece.  Outside,  there  were  in- 
termittent noises  and  rattles  from  the  traffic  in  the 
square,  and  beyond  that  again  the  muffled  insistent 
murmur  which  seemed  to  Nelly  this  afternoon — in 
her  utter  loneliness — the  most  desolate  sound  she  had 
ever  heard.  The  day  had  turned  to  rain  and  dark- 
ness, and  the  rapid  closing  of  the  October  afternoon 
prophesied  winter.  Nelly  could  not  rouse  herself  to 
write  the  letter  to  Miss  Martin.  She  lay  prone  in 
a  corner  of  the  sofa,  dreaming,  as  she  had  done  all 
her  life ;  save  that  the  faculty — of  setting  in  motion 
at  will  a  stream  of  vivid  and  connected  images — 
which  had  always  been  one  of  her  chief  pleasures, 
was  now  an  obsession  and  a  torment.  How  often, 
in  her  wakeful  nights  at  Rydal,  had  she  lived  over 
again  every  moment  in  the  walk  to  Blea  Tarn,  till 
at  last,  gathered  once  more  on  George's  knees,  and 
nestling  to  his  breast,  she  had  fallen  asleep — com- 
forted. 

She  went  through  it  all,  once  more,  in  this  strange 
room,  as  the  darkness  closed;  only  the  vision  ended 
now,  not  in  a  tender  thrill — half  conscious,  fading 


178  'MISSING' 

into  sleep — of  remembered  joy,  but  in  an  anguish  of 
sobbing,  the  misery  of  the  frail  tormented  creature, 
unable  to  bear  its  life. 

Nevertheless  sleep  came.  For  nights  she  had 
scarcely  slept,  and  in  the  silence  immediately  round 
her  the  distant  sounds  gradually  lost  their  dreary 
note,  and  became  a  rhythmical  and  soothing  influ- 
ence. She  fell  into  a  deep  unconsciousness. 

An  hour  later,  a  tall  man  rang  at  the  outer  door 
of  the  flat.  Mrs.  Simpson  obeyed  the  summons,  and 
found  Sir  William  Farrell  on  the  threshold. 

'  Well,  have  they  come  ?  ' 

1  Oh,  yes,  sir.'  And  Mrs.  Simpson  gave  a  rapid, 
sotto  voce  account  of  the  visitors'  arrival,  their  lunch, 
Mrs.  Sarratt's  sad  looks — '  poor  little  lady ! ' — and 
much  else. 

Sir  William  stepped  in. 

'  Are  they  at  home  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Simpson  shook  her  head. 

'  They  went  out  after  lunch,  Sir  William,  and  I 
have  not  heard  them  come  in.' 

Which,  of  course,  was  a  mistake  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Simpson,  who,  hearing  the  front  door  close  half 
an  hour  after  luncheon  and  no  subsequent  movement 
in  the  flat,  had  supposed  that  the  sisters  had  gone 
out  together. 

'All  right.  I'll  wait  for  them.  I  want  to  see 
Mrs.  Sarratt  before  I  start.  You  may  get  me  a  cup 
of  tea,  if  you  like.' 


'MISSING'  179 

Mrs.  Simpson  disappeared  with  alacrity,  and  Far- 
rell  crossed  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room.  He  turned 
on  the  light  as  he  opened  the  door,  and  was  at  once 
aware  of  Nelly's  slight  form  on  the  sofa.  She  did 
not  move,  and  something  in  her  attitude — some 
rigidity  that  he  fancied — alarmed  him.  He  took  a 
few  steps,  and  then  saw  that  there  was  no  cause  for 
alarm.  She  was  only  asleep,  poor  child,  profoundly, 
pathetically  asleep.  Her  utter  unconsciousness,  the 
delicate  hand  and  arm  lying  over  the  edge  of  the 
sofa,  and  the  gleam  of  her  white  forehead  under  its 
muffling  cloud  of  hair,  moved  him  strangely.  He  re- 
treated as  quietly  as  he  could,  and  almost  ran  into 
Mrs.  Simpson  bringing  a  tray.  He  beckoned  her 
into  a  small  room  which  he  used  as  his  own  den. 
But  he  had  hardly  explained  the  situation,  before 
there  were  sounds  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Nelly 
opened  the  door,  which  he  had  closed  behind  him. 
He  had  forgotten  to  turn  out  the  light,  and  its  glare 
had  awakened  her. 

*  Oh,  Sir  William — '  she  said,  in  bewilderment — 
*  Did  you  come  in  just  now? ' 

He  explained  his  proceedings,  retaining  the  hand 
she  gave  him,  and  looking  down  upon  her  with  an 
impulsive  and  affectionate  pity. 

'  You  were  asleep.  I  disturbed  you,'  he  said, 
remorsefully. 

*  Oh  no,  do  come  in.' 

She  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room. 

1 1  wanted — specially — to  tell  you  some  things  I 


i8o  'MISSING' 

heard  at  Aldershot  to-day,  which  I  thought  might 
cheer  you,'  said  Farrell. 

And  sitting  beside  her,  while  Mrs.  Simpson  lit  a 
fire  and  spread  a  white  tea-table,  hejrepeated  various 
stories  of  the  safe  return  of  '  missing '  men  which  he 
had  collected  for  her  that  morning,  including  the 
narrative  of  an  escaped  prisoner,  who,  although 
badly  wounded,  had  managed  to  find  his  way  back, 
at  night,  from  the  neighbourhood  of  Brussels,  through 
various  hairbreadth  adventures  and  disguises,  and 
after  many  weeks  to  the  British  lines.  He  brought 
the  tale  to  her,  as  an  omen  of  hope,  together  with  his 
other  gleanings;  and  under  the  influence  of  his  cheer- 
ful voice  and  manner,  Nelly's  aspect  changed;  the 
light  came  back  into  her  eyes,  which  hung  upon  him, 
as  Farrell  talked  on,  persuading  himself,  as  he  per- 
suaded her.  So  that  presently,  when  tea  came  in, 
and  the  kettle  boiled,  she  was  quite  ready  to  pour 
out  for  him,  to  ask  him  questions  about  his  night 
journey,  and  thank  him  timidly  for  all  his 
kindness. 

*  But  this — this  is  too  grand  for  us ! ' — she  said, 
looking  round  her.  '  We  must  find  a  lodging  soon.' 

He  begged  her  earnestly  to  let  the  flat  be  of  use 
to  her,  and  she,  embarrassed  and  unwilling,  but 
dreading  to  hurt  his  feelings,  was  compelled  at  last 
to  submit  to  a  week's  stay. 

Then  he  got  up  to  go;  and  she  was  very  sorry 
to  say  good-bye  to  him.  As  for  him,  in  her  wistful 
and  gracious  charm,  she  had  never  seemed  to  him 


'MISSING'  181 

more  lovely.    How  she  became  grief ! — in  her  meas- 


ure reserve 


He  ran  down  the  stairs  of  the  mansion  just  as 
Bridget  Cookson  arrived  with  the  lift  at  the  third 
floor.  She  recognised  the  disappearing  figure,  and 
stood  a  moment  at  the  door  of  the  flat,  looking  after 
it,  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  her  eyes. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  IX 

'TSsheout?' 

The  questioner  was  William  Farrell,  and 
the  question  was  addressed  to  his  cousin  Hes- 
ter, whom  he  had  found  sitting  in  the  little  upstairs 
drawing-room  of  the  Rydal  lodgings,  partly  knitting, 
but  mostly  thinking,  to  judge  from  her  slowly  moving 
needles,  and  her  absent  eyes  fixed  upon  the  garden 
outside  the  open  window. 

'  She  has  gone  down  to  the  lake — it  is  good  for 
her  to  be  alone  a  bit.' 

'  You  brought  her  up  from  Torquay?  ' 

1 1  did.  We  slept  in  London,  and  arrived  yester- 
day. Miss  Cookson  comes  this  evening.' 

1  Why  doesn't  she  keep  away? '  said  Farrell,  im- 
patiently. 

He  took  a  seat  opposite  his  cousin.  He  was  in 
riding-dress,  and  looked  in  splendid  case.  From  his 
boyhood  he  had  always  been  coupled  in  Hester's 
mind  with  the  Biblical  words — '  ruddy  and  of  a 
cheerful  countenance  ' ;  and  as  he  sat  there  flushed 
with  air  and  exercise,  they  fitted  him  even  better 
than  usual.  Yet  there  was  modern  subtlety  too  in 
his  restless  eyes,  and  mouth  alternately  sensitive  and 
ironic. 

185 


'i86  'MISSING' 

Hester's  needles  began  to  ply  a  little  faster.  A 
spring  wind  came  through  the  window,  and  stirred 
her  grey  hair. 

'How  did  she  get  over  it  yesterday?'  Farrell 
presently  asked. 

*  Well,  of  course  it  was  hard,'  said  Hester,  quietly. 
1 1  let  her  alone,  poor  child,  and  I  told  Mrs.  Weston 
not  to  bother  her.  She  came  up  to  these  rooms  and 
shut  herself  up  a  little.  I  went  over  to  my  own 
cottage,  and  came  back  for  supper.  Then  she  had 
got  it  over — and  I  just  kissed  her  and  said  nothing. 
It  was  much  best.' 

'Do  you  think  she  gives  up  hope  ?  ' 

Hester  shook  her  head. 

'  Not  the  least.    You  can  see  that.' 

'  What  do  you  mean?  ' 

'  When  she  gives  up  hope,  she  will  put  on  a  black 
dress.' 

Farrell  gave  an  impatient  sigh. 

'  You  know  there  can't  be  the  smallest,  doubt  that 
Sarratt  is  dead!  He  died  in  some  German  hospital, 
and  the  news  has  never  come  through.' 

'  The  Red  Cross  people  at  Geneva  declare  that  if 
he  had  died  in  hospital  they  would  know.  The 
identification  disks  are  returned  to  them — so  they 
say — with  remarkable  care.' 

'  Well  then,  he  died  on  the  field,  and  the  Germans 
buried  him.' 

'  In  which  case  the  poor  soul  will  know  nothing 


'MISSING'  187 

— ever,'  said  Hester  sadly.     '  But,  of  course,  she 
believes  he  is  a  prisoner.' 

*  My  dear  Hester,  if  he  were,  we  should  certainly 
have  heard!     Enquiries  are  now  much  more  thor- 
ough, and  the  results  much  more  accurate,  than  they 
were  a  year  ago.' 

'Loss  of  memory? — shell-shock?'  said  Hester 
vaguely. 

*  They  don't  do  away  with  your  disk,  and  your 
regimental  marks,  etc.    Whatever  may  happen  to  a 
private,  an  officer  doesn't  slip  through  and  vanish 
like  this,  if  he  is  still  alive.    The  thing  is  perfectly 
clear.' 

Hester  shook  her  head  without  speaking.  She 
was  just  as  thoroughly  convinced  as  Farrell  that 
Nelly  was  a  widow;  but  she  did  not  see  how  any- 
body could  proclaim  it  before  Nelly  did. 

1 1  wonder  how  long  it  will  take  to  convince  her,' 
said  Farrell,  after  a  pause. 

4  Well,  I  suppose  when  peace  comes,  if  there's  no 
news  then,  she  will  have  to  give  it  up.  By  the  ^vay, 
when  may  one — legally — presume  that  one's  husband 
is  dead? '  asked  Hester,  suddenly  lifting  her  shrewd 
grey  eyes  to  the  face  of  her  visitor. 

*  It  used  to  be  seven  years.   But  I  believe  now  you 
can  go  to  the  Courts ' 

'If  a  woman  wants  to  remarry?  Well  that,  of 
course,  Nelly  Sarratt  will  never  do! ' 

'  My  dear  Hester,  what  nonsense ! '  said  Farrell, 


i88  'MISSING' 

vehemently.  '  Of  course  she'll  marry  again.  What 
is  she? — twenty-one?  It  would  be  a  sin  and  a 
shame.' 

'  I  only  meant  she  would  never  take  any  steps  of 
her  own  will  to  separate  herself  from  Sarratt.' 

4  Women  look  at  things  far  too  sentimentally ! ' 
exclaimed  Farrell,  *  and  they  just  spoil  their  lives. 
However,  neither  you  nor  I  can  prophesy  anything. 
Time  works  wonders;  and  if  he  didn't,  we  should  all 
be  wrecks  and  lunatics ! ' 

Hester  said  nothing.  She  was  conscious  of  sup-* 
pressed  excitement  in  the  man  before  her.  Farrell 
watched  her  knitting  fingers  for  a  little,  and  then 
remarked : — 

'  But  of  course  at  present  what  has  to  be  done,  is 
to  improve  her  health,  and  distract  her  thoughts.' 

Hester's  eyes  lifted  again. 

*  And  you  want  to  take  it  in  hand? ' 

Her  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  was  rather  sharp. 
Farrell's  fair  though  sunburnt  skin  shewed  a  sudden 
redness. 

4 Yes,  I  do.  Why  shouldn't  I?'  His  look  met 
hers  full. 

4  She's  very  lonely — very  unprotected,'  said  Hes- 
ter, slowly. 

1  You  mean,  you  can't  trust  me  ?  '  he  said,  flush- 
ing deeper. 

'  No,  Willy — no ! '  Hester's  earnest,  perplexed 
look  appeased  his  rising  anger.  '  But  it's  a  very 
difficult  position,  you  must  see  for  yourself.  Ever 


'MISSING'  189 

since  George  Sarratt  disappeared,  you've  been — 
what  shall  I  say? — the  poor  child's  earthly  Provi- 
dence. Her  illness — her  convalescence — you've 
done  everything — you've  provided  everything ' 

*  With  her   sister's  consent,   remember ! — and   I 
promised  Sarratt  to  look  after  them! ' 

Farrell's  blue  eyes  were  now  bright  and  stubborn. 
Hester  realised  him  as  ready  for  an  argument  which 
both  he  and  she  had  long  foreseen.  She  and  Farrell 
had  always  been  rather  intimate  friends,  and  he  had 
come  to  her  for  advice  in  some  very  critical  moments 
of  his  life. 

'  Her  sister ! '  repeated  Hester,  contemptuously. 
*  Yes,  indeed,  Bridget  Cookson — in  my  opinion — is 
a  great  deal  too  ready  to  accept  everything  you  do ! 
But  Nelly  has  fought  it  again  and  again.  Only,  in 
her  weakness,  with  you  on  one  side — and  Bridget  on 
the  other — what  could  she  do  ?  ' 

She  had  taken  the  plunge  now.  Her  own  colour 
had  risen — her  hand  shook  a  little  on  her  needles. 
And  she  had  clearly  roused  some  strong  emotion  in 
Farrell.  After  a  few  moments'  silence,  he  fell  upon 
her,  speaking  rather  huskily. 

'  You  mean  I  have  taken  advantage  of  her? ' 

*  I  don't  mean  anything  of  the  kind ! '     Hester's 
tone  shewed  her  distress.    *  I  know  that  all  you  have 
done  has  been  out  of  pure  friendship  and  good- 
ness  ' 

He  stopped  her. 

*  Don't  go  on ! '  he  said  roughly.     *  Whatever  I 


i9o  'MISSING' 

am,  I'm  not  a  hypocrite.  I  worship  the  ground  she 
treads  on ! ' 

There  was  silence.  Hester  bent  again  over  her 
work.  The  thoughts  of  both  flew  back  over  the  pre- 
ceding six  months.  Nelly's  utter  collapse  after  five 
or  six  weeks  in  London,  when  the  closest  enquiries, 
backed  by  FarreH's  intelligence,  influence  and  money 
— he  had  himself  sent  out  a  special  agent  to 
Geneva — had  failed  to  reveal  the  slightest  trace  of 
George  Sarratt;  her  illness,  pneumonia,  the  result 
of  a  slight  chill  affecting  a  general  physical  state 
depressed  by  grief,  and  sleeplessness;  her  long  and 
tedious  convalescence;  and  that  pitiful  dumbness  and 
inertia  from  which  she  had  only  just  begun  to  emerge. 
Hester  was  thinking  too  of  the  nurses,  the  doctors, 
the  lodgings  at  Torquay,  the  motor,  the  endless  flow- 
ers and  books ! — all  provided,  practically,  by  Farrell, 
aided  and  abetted  by  Bridget's  readiness — a  dis- 
creditable readiness,  in  the  eyes  of  a  person  of  such 
Spartan  standards  as  Hester  Martin — to  avail  her- 
self to  any  extent  of  other  people's  money.  The 
patient  was  not  to  blame.  Even  in  the  worst  times 
of  her  illness,  Nelly  had  shewn  signs  of  distress  and 
revolt.  But  Bridget,  instructed  by  Farrell,  had 
talked  vaguely  of  *  a  loan  from  a  friend  ' ;  and  Nelly 
had  been  too  ill,  too  physically  weak,  to  urge  enquiry 
further. 

Seeing  that  he  was  to  blame,  Farrell  broke  in  upon 
Hester's  recollections. 

'  You  know  very  well ' — he   said  vehemently — 


'MISSING'  191 

1  that  if  anything  less  had  been  done  for  her,  she 
would  have  died! ' 

Would  she?  It  was  the  lavishness  and  costliness 
of  Farrell's  giving  which  had  shocked  Hester's  sense 
of  delicacy,  and  had  given  rise — she  was  certain — to 
gossip  among  the  Farrell  friends  and  kindred  that 
could  easily  have  been  avoided.  She  looked  at  her 
companion  steadily. 

'  Suppose  we  grant  it,  Willy.  But  now  she's  con- 
valescent, she's  going  to  get  strong.  Let  her  live 
her  own  life.  You  can't  marry  her — and  ' — she 
added  it  deliberately — '  she  is  as  much  in  love  with 
her  poor  George  as  she  ever  was ! ' 

Farrell  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  She  saw  him 
wince — and  she  had  intended  the  blow. 

*  I  can't  marry  her — yet — perhaps  for  years.  But 
why  can't  I  be  her  friend?  Why  can't  I  share  with 
her  the  things  that  give  me  pleasure — books — art — • 
and  all  the  rest?  Why  should  you  condemn  me  to 
see  her  living  on  a  pittance,  with  nobody  but  a  sister 
who  is  as  hard  as  nails  to  look  after  her? — lonely, 
and  unhappy,  and  dull — when  I  know  that  I  could 
help  her,  turn  her  mind  away  from  her  trouble — 
make  her  take  some  pleasure  in  life  again  ?  You  talk, 
Hester,  as  though  we  had  a  dozen  lives  to  play  with, 
instead  of  this  one  rickety  business ! ' 

His  resentment  grew  with  the  expression  of  it. 
But  Hester  met  him  unflinchingly. 

'  I'm  anxious — because  human  nature  is  human 
nature — and  risk  is  risk,'  she  said  slowly. 


192  'MISSING' 

He  bent  forward,  his  hands  on  his  knees. 

*  I  swear  to  you  I  will  be  honestly  her  friend ! 
What  do  you  take  me  for,  Hester?    You  know 
very  well  that — I  have  had  my  adventures,   and 
they're  over.     I'm  not  a  boy.     I  can  answer  for 
myself.' 

4  All  very  well ! — but  suppose — suppose — before 
she  felt  herself  free — and  against  her  conscience — 
she  were  to  fall  in  love  with  you?' 

Farrell  could  not  conceal  the  flash  that  the  mere 
words,  reluctantly  as  they  were  spoken,  sent  through 
his  blue  eyes.  He  laughed. 

'  Well — you're  there !  Act  watch-dog  as  much  as 
you  please.  Besides — we  all  know — you  have  just 
said  so — that  she  does  not  believe  in  Sarratt's  death, 
that  she  feels  herself  still  his  wife,  and  not  his 
widow.  That  fact  establishes  the  relation  between 
her  and  me.  And  if  the  outlook  changes ' 

His  voice  dropped  to  a  note  of  pleading — 

'  Let  me,  Hester !— let  me ! ' 

*  As  if  I  could  prevent  you ! '  said  Hester,  rather 
bitterly,  bending  again  over  her  work. 

'  Yes,  you  could.  You  have  such  influence  with 
her  now,  that  you  could  banish  me  entirely  if  you 
pleased.  A  word  from  you  would  do  it.  But  it 
would  be  hideously  cruel  of  you — and  abominally 
unjust !  However,  I  know  your  power — over  her — 
and  so  over  me.  And  so  I  made  up  my  mind  it  was 
no  good  trying  to  conceal  anything  from  you.  I've 
told  you  straight  out.  I  love  her — and  because  I 


'MISSING'  193 

love  her — you  may  be  perfectly  certain  I  shall  pro- 
tect her !  ' 

Silence  again.  Farrell  had  turned  towards  the 
open  window.  When  Hester  turned  her  eyes  she  saw 
his  handsome  profile,  his  Nibelung's  head  and  beard 
against  the  stony  side  of  the  fell.  A  man  with  unfair 
advantages,  it  seemed  to  her,  if  he  chose  to  put  out 
his  strength; — the  looks  of  a  king,  a  warm  heart, 
a  sympathetic  charm,  felt  quite  as  much  by  men  as 
by  women,  and  ability  which  would  have  distin- 
guished him  in  any  career,  if  his  wealth  had  not  put 
the  drag  on  industry.  But  at  the  moment  he  was  not 
idle.  He  was  more  creditably  and  fully  employed 
then  she  had  ever  known  him.  His  hospital  and  his 
pride  in  it  were  in  fact  Nelly  Sarratt's  best  safeguard. 
Whatever  he  wished,  he  could  not  possibly  spend  all 
his  time  at  her  feet. 

Hester  tried  one  more  argument — the  conven- 
tional. 

'  Have  you  ever  really  asked  yourself,  Willy,  how 
it  will  look  to  the  outside  world — what  people  will 
think?  It  is  all  very  well  to  scoff  at  Mrs.  Grundy, 
but  the  poor  child  has  no  natural  guardian.  We  both 
agree  her  sister  is  no  use  to  her.' 

*  Let  them  think ! ' — he  turned  to  her  again  with 
energy — '  so  long  as  you  and  I  know.  Besides — I 
shan't  compromise  her  in  any  way.  I  shall  be  most 
careful  not  to  do  so.' 

'  Look  at  this  room ! '  said  Hester  drily.     She 


194  'MISSING' 

herself  surveyed  it.  Farrell's  laugh  had  a  touch  of 
embarrassment. 

*  Well  ? — mayn't  anyone  give  things  to  a  sick 
child?  Hush!— here  she  is! ' 

He  drew  further  back  into  the  room,  and  they 
both  watched  a  little  figure  in  a  serge  dress  crossing 
the  footbridge  beyond  the  garden.  Then  she  came 
into  the  garden,  and  up  the  sloping  lawn,  her  hat 
dangling  in  her  hand,  and  the  spring  sunshine  upon 
her.  Hester  thought  of  the  preceding  June;  of  the 
little  bride,  with  her  springing  step,  and  radiant  eyes. 
Nelly,  as  she  was  now,  seemed  to  her  the  typical 
figure — or  rather,  one  of  the  two  typical  figures  of 
the  war— the  man  in  action,  the  woman  in  bereave- 
ment. Sorrow  had  marked  her ;  bitten  into  her  youth, 
and  blurred  it.  Yet  it  had  also  dignified  and  refined 
her.  She  was  no  less  lovely. 

As  she  approached,  she  saw  them  and  waved  to 
them.  Farrell  went  to  the  sitting-room  door  to  meet 
her,  and  it  seemed  both  to  him  and  Hester  that  in 
spite  of  her  emaciation  and  her  pallor,  she  brought 
the  spring  in  with  her.  She  had  a  bunch  of  willow 
catkins  and  primroses  in  her  hand,  and  her  face,  for 
all  its  hollow  cheeks  and  temples,  shewed  just  a 
sparkle  of  returning  health. 

It  was  clear  that  she  was  pleased  to  see  Farrell.  But 
her  manner  of  greeting  him  now  was  very  different 
from  what  it  had  been  in  the  days  before  her  loss.  It 
was  much  quieter  and  more  assured.  His  seniority 
— there  were  nineteen  years  between  them — his  con- 


'MISSING'  195 

spicuous  place  in  the  world,  his  knowledge  and  ac- 
complishment, had  evidently  ceased  to  intimidate  her. 
Something  had  equalised  them. 

But  his  kindness  could  still  make  her  shy. 

Half-way  across  the  room,  she  caught  sight  of  a 
picture,  on  an  easel,  both  of  which  Farrell  had 
brought  with  him. 

*  Oh ! '  she  said,  and  stopped  short,  looking 

from  it  to  him. 

He  enjoyed  her  surprise. 

'  Well?  Do  you  remember  admiring  it  at  the  cot- 
tage ?  I'm  up  to  the  neck  in  work.  I  never  go  there. 
I  thought  you  and  Hester  might  as  well  take  care  of 
it  for  a  bit.' 

Nelly  approached  it.  It  was  one  of  the  Turner 
water-colours  which  glorified  the  cottage;  the  most 
adorable,  she  thought,  of  all  of  them.  It  shewed  a 
sea  of  downs,  their  grassy  backs  flowing  away  wave 
after  wave,  down  to  the  real  sea  in  the  gleaming 
distance.  Between  the  downs  ran  a  long  valley  floor 
— cottages  on  it,  woods  and  houses,  farms  and 
churches,  strung  on  a  silver  river;  under  the  mingled 
cloud  and  sunshine  of  an  April  day.  It  breathed  the 
very  soul  of  England, — of  this  sacred  long-descended 
land  of  ours.  Sarratt,  who  had  stood  beside  her 
when  she  had  first  looked  at  it,  had  understood  it  so 
at  once. 

1  Jolly  well  worth  fighting  for — this  country !  isn't 
it? '  he  had  said  to  Farrell  over  her  head,  and  once 
or  twice  afterwards  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  the  draw- 


196  'MISSING' 

ing  with  delight.  '  I  shall  think  of  it — over  there. 
It'll  do  one  good.' 

As  she  paused  before  it  now,  a  sob  rose  in  her 
throat.  But  she  controlled  herself  quickly.  Then 
something  beyond  the  easel  caught  her  eye — a  mass 
of  flowers,  freesias,  narcissus,  tulips,  tumbled  on  a 
table;  then  a  pile  of  new  books;  and  finally,  a  sur- 
prising piece  of  furniture. 

'What  have  you  been  doing  now?'  she  asked 
him,  wondering,  and,  as  Hester  thought,  shrinking 
back  a  little. 

*  It's  from  Cicely ' — he  said  apologetically.    '  She 
made  me  bring  it.    She  declared  she'd  sampled  the 
sofa  here, — '  he  pointed  to  an  ancient  one  in  a  corner 
— *  and  it  would  disgrace  a  dug-out.    It's  her  affair — 
don't  blame  me ! ' 

Nelly  looked  bewildered. 

*  But  I'm  not  ill  now.    I'm  getting  well.' 

4  If  you  only  knew  what  a  ghost  you  look  still,' 
he  said  vehemently,  *  you'd  let  Cicely  have  her  little 
plot.  This  used  to  stand  in  my  mother's  sitting- 
room.  It  was  bought  for  her.  Cicely  had  it  put  to 
rights.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  made  a  hasty  mental  note  that 
Cicely  would  have  to  be  coached  in  her  part. 

Nelly  examined  the  object.  It  was  a  luxurious 
adjustable  couch,  covered  in  flowery  chintz,  with  a 
reading-desk,  and  well  supplied  with  the  softest 
cushions. 


'MISSING'  197 

She  laughed,  but  there  was  rather  a  flutter  in  her 
laugh. 

'  It's  awfully  kind  of  Cicely.    But  you  know ' 

Her  eyes  turned  on  Farrell  with  a  sudden  insist- 
ence. Hester  had  just  left  the  room,  and  her  distant 
voice — with  other  voices — could  be  heard  in  the 
garden. 

4 You  know  you  mustn't — all  of  you — spoil 

me  so,  any  more.  I've  got  my  life  to  face.  You 
mean  it  so  kindly — but ' 

She  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  window  that  Farrell 
had  placed  for  her,  and  her  aspect  struck  him  pain- 
fully. There  was  so  much  weakness  in  it;  and  yet 
a  touch  of  fierceness. 

4  I've  got  my  life  to  face,'  she  repeated — '  and  you 
mustn't,  Sir  William — you  mustn't  let  me  get  too 
dependent  on  you — and  Cicely — and  Hester.  Be  my 
friend — my  true  friend — and  help  me ' 

She  bent  forward,  and  her  pale  lips  just  breathed 
the  rest — 

1  Help  me— to  endure  Aar*fri£££/_  That's  what  I 
want — for  George's  sake — and  my  own.  I  must  find 
sOTfiFwork  to  doT~  In  a  few  months  perhaps  1  might 
be  able  to  teach — but;  there  are  plenty  of  things  I 
could  do  now.  I  want  to  be  just — neglected  a  little — 
treated  as  a  normal  person! ' 

She  smiled  faintly  at  him  as  he  stood  beside  her. 
He  felt  himself  rebuked — abashed — as  though  he 
had  been  in  some  sort  an  intruder  on  her  spiritual 
freedom;  had  tried  to  purchase  her  dependence  by 


i98  'MISSING' 

a  kindness  she  did  not  want.  That  was  not  in  her 
mind,  he  knew.  But  it  was  in  Hester's.  And  there 
was  not  wanting  a  certain  guilty  consciousness  in  his 
own. 

But  he  threw  it  off.  Absurdity!  She  did  need 
his  friendship;  and  he  had  done  what  he  had  done 
without  the  shadow  of  a  corrupt  motive — en  tout 
bien,  tout  honneur. 

It  was  intolerable  to  him  to  think  of  her  as  poor 
and  resourceless — left  to  that  disagreeable  sister  and 
her  own  melancholy  thoughts.  Still  the  first  need 
of  all  was  that  she  should  trust  him — as  a  good 
friend,  who  had  slipped  by  force  of  circumstances 
into  a  kind  of  guardian's  position.  Accordingly  he 
applied  himself  to  the  kind  of  persuasion  that  befits 
seniority  and  experience.  She  had  asked  to  be 
treated  as  a  normal  person.  He  proved  to  her, 
gently  laughing  at  her,  that  the  claim  was  prepos- 
terous. Ask  her  doctor! — ask  Hester!  As  for 
teaching,  time  enough  to  talk  about  that  when  she 
had  a  little  flesh  on  her  bones,  a  little  strength  in  her 
limbs.  She  might  read,  of  course;  that  was  what 
the  couch  was  for.  Lying  there  by  the  window  she 
might  become  as  learned  as  she  liked,  and  get  strong 
at  the  same  time.  He  would  keep  her  stocked  with 
books.  The  library  at  Carton  was  going  mouldy  for 
lack  of  use.  And  as  for  her  drawing,  he  had  hoped 
— perhaps — she  might  some  time  take  a  lesson 

Then  he  saw  a  little  shiver  run  through  her. 

'  Could  I  ?  '  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  turning  her 


'MISSING'  199 

face  away.  And  he  perceived  that  the  bare  idea  of 
resuming  old  pleasures — the  pleasures  of  her  happy, 
her  unwidowed  time — was  still  a  shock  to  her. 

4  I'm  sure  it  would  help  ' — he  said,  persevering. 
*  You  have  a  real  turn  for  water-colour.  You  should 
cultivate  it — you  should  really.  In  my  belief  you 
might  do  a  great  deal  better  with  it  than  with 
teaching.' 

That  roused  her.    She  sat  up,  her  eyes  brightening. 

'  If  I  worked — you  really  think?  And  then,'  her 
voice  dropped — *  if  George  came  back ' 

1  Exactly,'  he  said  gravely — '  it  might  be  of  great 
use.  Didn't  you  wish  for  something  normal  to  do  ? 
Well,  here's  the  chance.  I  can  supply  you  with 
endless  subjects  to  copy.  There  are  more  in  the 
cottage  than  you  would  get  through  in  six  months. 
And  I  could  send  you  over  portfolios  of  my  own 
studies  and  academies,  done  at  Paris,  and  in  the 
Slade,  which  would  help  you — and  sometimes  we 
could  take  some  work  out  of  doors.' 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  sad  puzzled  eyes,  as  they 
wandered  over  the  garden  and  the  lake,  shewed  that 
she  was  considering  it. 

Then  suddenly  her  expression  changed. 

'  Isn't  that  Cicely's  voice  ? '  She  motioned  towards 
the  garden. 

*  I  daresay.  I  sent  on  the  motor  to  meet  her  at 
Windermere.  She's  been  in  town  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  selling  at  Red  Cross  Bazaars  and  things.  And 
by  George ! — isn't  that  Marsworth? ' 


200  'MISSING' 

He  sprang  up  to  look,  and  verified  his  guess.  The 
tall  figure  on  the  lawn  with  Cicely  and  Hester  was 
certainly  Marsworth.  He  and  Nelly  looted  at  each 
other,  and  Nelly  smiled. 

*  You  know  Cicely  and  I  have  become  great 
friends? '  she  said  shyly.  '  It's  so  odd  that  I  should 
call  her  Cicely — but  she  makes  me.' 

'  She  treats  you  nicely? — at  last?  ' 

4  She's  awfully  good  to  me,'  said  Nelly,  with  em- 
phasis. *  I  used  to  be  so  afraid  of  her.' 

'What  wrought  the  miracle?' 

But  Nelly  shook  her  head,  and  would  not  tell. 

4 1  had  a  letter  from  Marsworth  a  week  ago,' 
said  Farrell  reflecting — '  asking  how  and  where  we 
all  were.  I  told  him  I  was  tied  and  bound  to  Carton 
— no  chance  of  getting  away  for  ages — but  that 
Cicely  had  kicked  over  the  traces  and  gone  up  to 
London  for  a  month.  Then  he  sent  a  post-card  to 
say  that  he  was  coming  up  for  a  fortnight's  treatment, 
and  would  go  to  his  old  quarters  at  the  Rectory. 
Ah! ' 

He  paused,  grinning.  The  same  thought  occurred 
to  both  of  them.  Marsworth  was  still  suffering  very 
much  at  times  from  his  neuralgia  in  the  arm,  and 
had  a  great  belief  in  one  of  the  Carton  surgeons, 
who,  with  Farrell's  aid,  had  now  installed  one  of  the 
most  complete  electrical  and  gymnastic  apparatus  in 
the  kingdom,  at  the  Carton  hospital.  Once,  dur- 
ing an  earlier  absence  of  Cicely's  before  Christ- 
mas, he  had  suddenly  appeared  at  the  Rectory,  for 


'MISSING'  201 

ten    days'    treatment;    and    now — again!     Farrell 
laughed. 

*  As  for  Cicely,  you  can  never  count  on  her  for  a 
week  together.    She  got  home-sick,  and  wired  to  me 
that  she  was  coming  to-night.     I  forgot  all  about 
Marsworth.     I  expect  they  met  at  the  station;  and 
quarrelled  all  the  way  here.    What  on  earth  is  Cicely 
after  in  that  direction !    You  say  you've  made  friends 
with  her.    Do  you  know  ?  ' 

Neliy  looked  conscious. 

1 1 — I  guess  something,'  she  said. 

*  But  you  mustn't  tell  ?  ' 

She  nodded,  smiling.  Farrell  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

*  Well,  am  I  to  encourage  Marsworth — supposing 
he  comes  to  me  for  advice — to  go  and  propose  to  the 
Rector's  granddaughter?' 

'  Certainly  not ! '  said  Nelly,  opening  a  pair  of 
astonished  eyes. 

'  Aha,  I've  caught  you !  You've  given  the  show 
away.  But  you  know  ' — his  tone  grew  serious — '  it's 
not  at  all  impossible  that  he  may.  She  torments 
him  too  much.' 

'  He  must  do  nothing  of  the  kind,'  said  Nelly, 
with  decision. 

'  Well,  you  tell  him  so.  I  wash  my  hands  of 
them.  I  can't  fathom  either  of  them.  Here  they 
are!' 

Voices  ascending  the  stairs  announced  the  party. 
Cicely  came  in  first;  tired  and  travel-stained,  and 


202  'MISSING' 

apparently  in  the  worst  of  tempers.  But  she  seemed 
glad  to  see  Nelly  Sarratt,  whom  she  kissed,  to  the 
astonishment  of  her  Cousin  Hester,  who  was  not  as 
yet  aware  of  the  new  relations  between  the  two. 
And  then,  flinging  herself  into  a  chair  beside  Nelly, 
she  declared  that  she  was  dead-beat,  that  the  train 
had  been  intolerably  full  of  khaki,  and  that  soldiers 
ought  to  have  trains  to  themselves. 

'  Thank  your  stars,  Cicely,  that  you  are  allowed 
to  travel  at  all,'  said  Farrell.  '  No  civilian  nowa- 
days matters  a  hap'orth.' 

'  And  then  we  talk  about  Prussian  Militarism ! ' 
cried  Cicely.  And  she  went  off  at  score  describing 
the  invasion  of  her  compartment  at  Rugby  by  a 
crowd  of  young  officers,  whose  manners  were 
1  atrocious.' 

'What  was  their  crime?'  asked  Marsworth, 
quietly.  He  sat  in  the  background,  cigarette  in  hand, 
a  strong  figure,  rather  harshly  drawn,  black  hair 
slightly  grizzled,  a  black  moustache,  civilian  clothes. 
He  had  filled  out  since  the  preceding  summer  and 
looked  much  better  in  health.  But  his  left  arm  was 
still  generally  in  its  sling. 

'  They  had  every  crime ! '  said  Cicely  impatiently. 
*  It  isn't  worth  discriminating.' 

Marsworth  raised  his  eyebrows. 

'  Poor  boys ! ' 

Cicely  flushed. 

*  You  think,  of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  criticise 
anything  in  khaki ! ' 


'MISSING'  203 

4  Not  at  all.  Criticism  is  the  salt  of  life.'  His 
eyes  twinkled. 

*  That  I  entirely  deny! '  said  Cicely,  firmly.  She 
made  a  fantastic  but  agreeable  figure  as  she  sat  near 
the  window  in  the  full  golden  light  of  the  March 
evening.  Above  her  black  toque  there  soared  a 
feather  which  almost  touched  the  ceiling  of  the  low 
room — a  panache,  nodding  defiance ;  while  her  short 
grey  skirts  shewed  her  shapely  ankles  and  feet, 
clothed  in  grey  gaiters  and  high  boots  of  the  very 
latest  perfection. 

'  What  do  you  deny,  Cicely? '  asked  her  brother, 
absently,  conscious  always,  through  all  the  swaying 
of  talk,  of  the  slight  childish  form  of  Nelly  Sarratt 
beneath  him,  in  her  deep  chair;  and  of  the  eyes  and 
mouth,  which  after  the  few  passing  smiles  he  had 
struck  from  them,  were  veiled  again  in  their  habitual 
sadness.  '  Here  I  and  sorrow  sit.'  The  words  ran 
through  his  mind,  only  to  be  passionately  rejected. 
She  was  young! — and  life  was  long.  Forget  she 
would,  and  must. 

At  her  brother's  question,  Cicely  merely  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

'  Your  sister  was  critical,'  said  Marsworth,  laugh- 
ing,— '  and  then  denies  the  uses  of  criticism.' 

'  As  some  people  employ  it ! '  said  Cicely, 
pointedly. 

Marsworth's  mouth  twitched — but  he  said 
nothing. 

Then  Hester,  perceiving  that  the  atmosphere  was 


204  'MISSING' 

stormy,  started  some  of  the  usual  subjects  that  re- 
lieve tension ;  the  weather — the  possibility  of  a  rush 
of  Easter  tourists  to  the  Lakes — the  daffodils  that 
were  beginning  to  make  beauty  in  some  sheltered 
places.  Marsworth  assisted  her;  while  Cicely  took 
a  chair  beside  Nelly,  and  talked  exclusively  to  her, 
in  a  low  voice.  Presently  Hester  saw  their  hands 
slip  together — Cicely's  long  and  vigorous  fingers 
enfolding  Nelly's  thin  ones.  How  had  two  such 
opposites  ever  come  to  make  friends?  The  kindly 
old  maid  was  very  conscious  of  cross  currents  in 
the  spiritual  air,  as  she  chatted  to  Marsworth.  She 
was  keenly  aware  of  Farrell,  and  could  not  keep  the 
remembrance  of  what  he  had  said  to  her  out  of  her 
mind.  Nelly's  face  and  form,  also,  as  the  twilight 
veiled  them,  were  charged  for  Hester  with  pitiful 
meaning.  While  at  the  back  of  her  thoughts  there 
was  an  expectation,  a  constant  and  agitating  expecta- 
tion, of  another  arrival.  Bridget  Cookson  might  be 
upon  them  at  any  moment.  To  Hester  Martin  she 
was  rapidly  becoming  a  disquieting  and  sinister  ele- 
ment in  this  group  of  people.  Yet  why,  Hester  could 
not  really  have  explained. 

The  afternoon  was  rapidly  drawing  in,  and  Far- 
rell was  just  beginning  to  take  out  his  watch,  and  talk 
of  starting  home,  when  the  usual  clatter  of  wheels 
and  hoofs  announced  the  arrival  of  the  evening 
coach.  Nelly  sat  up,  looking  very  white  and  weary. 

1 1  am  expecting  my  sister,'  she  said  to  Farrell. 
*  She  has  no  doubt  come  by  this  coach.' 


'MISSING'  205 

And  in  a  few  more  minutes,  Bridget  was  in  the 
room,  distributing  to  everybody  there  the  careless 
staccato  greetings  which  were  her  way  of  protecting 
herself  against  the  world.  Her  entrance  and  her 
manner  had  always  a  disintegrating  effect  upon 
other  human  beings;  and  Bridget  had  no  sooner 
shaken  hands  with  the  Farrells  than  everybody — 
save  Nelly — was  upon  their  feet  and  ready  to  move. 
One  of  Bridget's  most  curious  and  marked  charac- 
teristics was  an  unerring  instinct  for  whatever  news 
might  be  disagreeable  to  the  company  in  which  she 
found  herself;  and  on  this  occasion  she  brought  some 
bad  war  news — a  German  advance  at  Verdun,  with 
corresponding  French  losses — and  delivered  it  with 
the  emphasis  of  one  to  whom  it  was  not  really  un- 
welcome. Cicely,  to  whom,  flourishing  her  evening 
paper,  she  had  mainly  addressed  herself,  listened 
with  the  haughty  and  casual  air  she  generally  put  on 
for  Bridget  Cookson.  She  had  succumbed  for  her 
own  reasons  to  the  charm  of  Nelly.  She  was  only 
the  more  inclined  to  be  rude  to  Bridget.  Accordingly 
she  professed  complete  incredulity  on  the  subject 
of  the  news.  4  Invented,' — she  supposed — '  to  sell 
some  halfpenny  rag  or  other.  It  would  all  be  con- 
tradicted to-morrow.'  Then  when  Bridget,  smarting 
under  so  much  scepticism,  attempted  to  support  her 
tale  by  the  testimony  of  various  stale  morsels  of 
military  gossip,  current  in  a  certain  pessimist  and 
pacifist  household  she  had  been  visiting  in  Manches- 
ter, as  to  the  unfavourable  situation  in  France,  and 


206  'MISSING' 

the  dead  certainty  of  the  loss  of  Verdun;  passing 
glibly  on  to  the  *  bad  staff  work '  on  the  British  side, 
and  the  '  poor  quality  of  the  new  officers  compared  to 
the  old,'  etc. — Cicely  visibly  turned  up  her  nose,  and 
with  a  few  deft,  cat-like  strokes  put  a  raw  provincial 
in  her  place.  She,  Cicely,  of  course — she  made  it 
plain,  by  a  casual  hint  or  two — had  just  come  from 
the  very  centre  of  things;  from  living  on  a  social 
diet  of  nothing  less  choice  than  Cabinet  Ministers 
and  leading  Generals — Bonar  Law,  Asquith,  Cur- 
zon,  Briand,  Lloyd  George,  Thomas,  the  great 
Joffre  himself.  Bridget  began  to  scowl  a  little,  and 
had  it  been  anyone  else  than  Cicely  Farrell  who  was 
thus  chastising  her,  would  soon  have  turned  her  back 
upon  them.  For  she  was  no  indiscriminate  respecter 
of  persons,  and  cared  nothing  at  all  about  rank  or 
social  prestige.  But  from  a  Farrell  she  took  all 
things  patiently;  till  Cicely,  suddenly  discovering  that 
her  victim  was  giving  her  no  sport,  called  peremp- 
torily to  *  Willy  '  to  help  her  put  on  her  cloak.  But 
Farrell  was  having  some  last  words  with  Nelly,  and 
Marsworth  came  forward — 

•  Let  me ' 

1  Oh  thank  you ! '  said  Cicely  carelessly,  *  I  can 
manage  it  myself.'  And  she  did  not  allow  him  to 
touch  it. 

Marsworth  retreated,  and  Hester,  who  had  seen 
the  little  incident,  whispered  indignantly  in  her 
cousin's  ear — 

*  Cicely ! — you  are  a  wicked  little  wretch  1 ' 


'MISSING'  207 

But  Cicely  only  laughed,  and  her  feather  made 
defiant  nods  and  flourishes  all  the  way  down- 
stairs. 

1  Come  along  Marsworth,  my  boy,'  said  Farrell 
when  the  good-byes  were  said,  and  Hester  stood 
watching  their  departure,  while  Cicely  chattered 
from  the  motor,  where  she  sat  wrapped  in  furs 
against  a  rising  east  wind.  *  Outside — or  inside  ? ' 
He  pointed  to  the  car. 

'  Outside,  thank  you,'  said  Marsworth,  with  de- 
cision. He  promptly  took  his  place  beside  the 
chauffeur,  and  Farrell  and  his  sister  were  left  to  each 
other's  company.  Farrell  had  seldom  known  his 
companion  more  cross  and  provoking  than  she  was 
during  the  long  motor  ride  home;  and  on  their  ar- 
rival at  Carton  she  jumped  out  of  the  car,  and  with 
barely  a  nod  to  Marsworth,  vanished  into  the  house. 

Meanwhile  Nelly  had  let  Hester  install  her  on  the 
Carton  couch,  and  lay  there  well  shawled,  beside 
the  window,  her  delicate  face  turned  to  the  lake  and 
the  mountains.  Bridget  was  unpacking,  and  Hester 
was  just  departing  to  her  own  house.  Nelly  could 
hardly  let  her  go.  For  a  month  now,  Hester  had  been 
with  her  at  Torquay,  while  Bridget  was  pursuing 
some  fresh  *  work  '  in  London.  And  Nelly's  desolate 
heart  had  found  both  calm  and  bracing  in  Hester's 
tenderness.  For  the  plain  shapeless  spinster  was  one 
of  those  rare  beings  who  in  the  Lampadephoria  of 
life,  hand  on  the  Lamp  of  Love,  pure  and  undefiled, 


208  'MISSING' 

as  they  received  it  from  men  and  women,  like  them- 
selves, now  dead. 

But  Hester  went  at  last,  and  Nelly  was  alone. 
The  lake  lay  steeped  in  a  rich  twilight,  into  which 
the  stars  were  rising.  The  purple  breast  of  Silver 
How  across  the  water  breathed  of  shelter,  of  rest, 
of  things  ineffable.  Nelly's  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
and  her  hands  clasped  on  her  breast  scarcely  kept 
down  the  sobbing.  There,  under  the  hands,  was  the 
letter  which  George  had  written  to  her,  the  night 
before  he  left  her.  She  had  been  told  of  its  existence 
within  a  few  days  of  his  disappearance ;  and  though 
she  longed  for  it,  a  stubborn  instinct  had  bade  her 
refuse  to  have  it,  refuse  to  open  it.  'No! — I  was 
only  to  open  it,  if  George  was  dead.  And  he  is  not 
dead ! '  And  as  time  went  on,  it  had  seemed  to  her 
for  months,  as  if  to  open  it,  would  be  in  some  mys- 
terious way  to  seal  his  fate.  But  at  last  she  had  sent 
for  it — at  last  she  had  read  it — with  bitter  tears. 

She  would  wear  no  black  for  him — her  lost  lover. 
She  told  herself  to  hope  still.  But  she  was,  in  truth, 
beginning  to  despair.  And  into  her  veins,  all  uncon- 
sciously, as  into  those  of  the  old  brown  earth,  the 
tides  of  youth,  the  will  to  live,  were  slowly,  slowly, 
surging  back. 


CHAPTER  X 

<X7"OU  have  gone  far  enough,'  said  Cicely  im- 
|     periously.    '  I  am  going  to  take  you  home.' 

1  Let  me  sit  a  little  first.  It's  all  so  lovely. 
Nelly  dropped  into  the  soft  springy  turf,  dried 
by  a  mild  east  wind,  and  lay  curled  up  under  a  rock, 
every  tremulous  nerve  in  her  still  frail  body  played 
on  by  the  concert  of  earth  and  sky  before  her.  It 
was  May;  the  sky  was  china-blue,  and  the  clouds 
sailed  white  upon  it.  The  hawthorns  too  were  white 
upon  the  fell-side,  beside  the  ageing  gold  of  the 
gorse,  while  below,  the  lake  lay  like  roughened  silver 
in  its  mountain  cup,  and  on  the  sides  of  Nab  Scar, 
below  the  screes,  the  bronze  of  the  oaks  ran  in  and 
out  among  the  feathery  green  of  the  larch  planta- 
tions, or  the  flowering  grass  of  the  hay-meadows 
dropping  to  the  lake.  The  most  spiritual  moment  of 
the  mountain  spring  was  over.  This  was  earth  in 
her  moment  of  ferment,  rushing  towards  the  fruition 
of  summer. 

Nelly's  youth  was  keenly,  automatically  conscious 
of  the  physical  pleasure  of  the  day;  except  indeed 
for  recurrent  moments,  when  that  very  pleasure 
revived  the  sharpness  of  grief.  Soon  it  would  be  the 
anniversary  of  her  wedding  day.  Every  hour  of 
that  day,  and  of  the  honeymoon  bliss  which  followed 
209 


210  'MISSING' 

it,  seemed  to  be  still  so  close  to  her.  Surely  she 
had  only  to  put  out  her  hand  to  find  his,  and  all  the 
horror  and  the  anguish  swept  away.  Directly  she 
shut  her  eyes  on  this  spring  scene,  she  was  in  that 
other  life,  which  had  been,  and  therefore  must 
still  be. 

But  she  had  not  been  talking  of  him  with  Cicely. 
She  very  seldom  talked  of  him  now,  or  of  the  past. 
She  kept  up  correspondence  with  half  a  dozen  men 
of  his  company — the  brother  officer  to  whom  Sarratt 
had  given  his  last  letter — a  sergeant,  and  three  or 
four  privates,  who  had  written  to  her  about  him. 
She  had  made  friends  with  them  all,  especially  with 
the  young  lieutenant.  They  seemed  to  like  hearing 
from  her;  and  she  followed  all  their  migrations  and 
promotions  with  a  constant  sympathy.  One  of  them 
had  just  written  to  her  from  a  hospital  at  Boulogne. 
He  had  been  seriously  wounded  in  a  small  affair  near 
Festubert  early  in  May.  He  was  getting  better  he 
said,  but  he  hardly  cared  whether  he  recovered  or  not. 
Everybody  he  cared  for  in  the  regiment  had  '  gone 
west '  in  the  fighting  of  the  preceding  month.  No  big 
push  either, — just  many  little  affairs  that  came  to 
nothing — it  was  '  damned  luck !  '  There  was  one  of 
his  officers  that  he  couldn't  get  over — he  couldn't  get 
over  '  Mr.  Edward  '  being  killed.  He — the  writer 
— had  been  Mr.  Edward's  servant  for  a  month  or 
two — having  known  his  people  at  home — and  a  nicer 
young  fellow  never  stepped.  '  When  I  go  back, 
I'm  going  to  look  for  Mr.  Edward — they  say  he  was 


'MISSING'  211 

buried  close  to  the  trenches  where  he  fell,  and  I'm 
going  to  put  him  in  some  quiet  place ;  and  then  when 
the  war's  over  we  can  bring  him  back  to  Baston 
Magna,  and  lay  him  with  his  own  people  in  Baston 
churchyard.' 

*  I  wonder  who  Mr.  Edward  was,'  said  Nelly  to 
herself,  with  half  shut  eyes.  She  had  entirely  for- 
gotten Cicely's  neighbourhood.  But  Cicely  turned 
round,  and  asked  her  what  she  was  thinking  of. 
Nelly  repeated  the  letter,  and  Cicely  suddenly  shewed 
agitation — 'Edward! — Baston  Magna! — he  means 
Edward  Longmore ! ' 

Cicely  rarely  cried.  When  she  was  moved,  she 
had  a  way  of  turning  a  grey-white,  and  speaking 
with  particular  deliberation,  as  though  every  word 
were  an  effort.  Of  late,  for  some  mysterious  reason, 
she  only  indulged  occasionally  in  *  make-up  ' ;  there 
was  no  rouge,  at  any  rate,  on  this  afternoon,  to 
disguise  her  change  of  colour.  She  looked  oddly  at 
Nelly. 

'  I  danced  with  him  at  Christmas,'  she  said. 
*  There  was  a  very  smart  party  at  a  house  in  Gros- 
venor  Square.  The  Prince  was  there,  home  on  short 
leave,  and  about  twenty  young  men  in  khaki,  and 
twenty  girls.  Edward  Longmore  was  there — he 
wrote  to  me  afterwards.  Oh,  he  was  much  younger 
than  I.  He  was  the  dearest,  handsomest,  bravest 
little  fellow.  When  I  saw  his  name  in  the  list — I 
just ' — she  ground  her  small  white  teeth — '  I  just 
cursed  the  war  I  Do  you  know  ' — she  rolled,  over  on 


212  'MISSING' 

the  grass  beside  Nelly,  her  chin  in  her  hands — *  the 
July  before  the  war,  I  used  to  play  tennis  in  a  garden 
near  London.  There  were  always  five  or  six  boys 
hanging  about  there — jolly  handsome  boys,  with 
everything  that  anybody  could  want — family,  and 
money,  and  lots  of  friends — all  the  world  before 
them.  And  there's  not  one  of  them  left.  They're 
all  dead — dead!  Think  of  that!  Boys  of  twenty 
and  twenty-one.  What'll  the  girls  do  they  used  to 
play  and  dance  with  ?  All  their  playfellows  are  gone. 
They  can't  marry — they'll  never  marry.  It  hadn't 
anything  to  do  with  me,  of  course.  I'm  twenty-eight. 
I  felt  like  a  mother  to  them!  But  I  shan't  marry 
either!' 

Nelly  didn't  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
put  out  a  hand  and  turned  Cicely's  face  towards 
her. 

'  Where  is  he? — and  what  is  he  doing?  '  she  said, 
half  laughing,  but  always  with  that  something  behind 
her  smile  which  seemed  to  set  her  apart. 

Cicely  sat  up. 

'He?  Oh,  that  gentleman!  Well,  he  has  got 
some  fresh  work — just  the  work  he  wanted,  he  says, 
in  the  Intelligence  Department,  and  he  writes  to 
Willy  that  life  is  "  extraordinarily  interesting,"  and 
he's  "  glad  to  have  lived  to  see  this  thing,  horrible 
as  it  is."  ' 

4  Well,  you  wouldn't  wish  him  to  be  miserable  ?  ' 

*  I  should  have  no  objection  at  all  to  his  being 
miserable,'  said  Cicely  calmly,  '  but  I  am  not  such  a 


'MISSING'  213 

fool  as  to  suppose  that  I  should  ever  know  it,  if  he 
were.' 

'Cicely!' 

Cicely  took  up  a  stalk  of  grass,  and  began  to  bite 
it.  Her  eyes  seemed  on  fire.  Nelly  was  suddenly 
aware  of  the  flaming  up  of  fierce  elemental  things 
in  this  fashionably  dressed  young  woman  whose  time 
was  oddly  divided  between  an  important  share  in 
the  running  of  her  brother's  hospital,  and  a  hungry 
search  after  such  gaieties  as  a  world  at  war  might 
still  provide  her  with.  She  could  spend  one  night 
absorbed  in  some  critical  case,  and  eagerly  rendering 
the  humblest  V.A.D.  service  to  the  trained  nurses 
whom  her  brother  paid;  and  the  next  morning  she 
would  travel  to  London  in  order  to  spend  the  second 
night  in  one  of  those  small  dances  at  great  houses  of 
which  she  had  spoken  to  Nelly,  where  the  presence 
of  men  just  come  from,  or  just  departing  to,  the  fir- 
ing line  lent  a  zest  to  the  talk  and  the  flirting,  the 
jealousies  and  triumphs  of  the  evening  that  the  dances 
of  peace  must  do  without.  Then  after  a  morning  of 
wild  spending  in  the  shops  she  would  take  a  midday 
train  back  to  Cumberland  and  duty. 

Nelly,  looking  at  her,  wondered  afresh  how  they 
had  ever  come  to  be  friends.  Yet  they  were  friends, 
and  her  interest  in  Cicely's  affairs  was  one  of  the 
slender  threads  drawing  her  back  to  life. 

It  had  all  happened  when  she  was  ill  at  the  flat; 
after  that  letter  from  the  Geneva  Red  Cros^whTch 


214  'MISSING' 

reported  that  in  spite  of  exhaustive  enquiries  among 
German  hospitals,  and  in  the  prisoners'  camps  no 
trace  of  Lieutenant  Sarratt  could  be  found.  On  the 
top  of  the  letter,  and  the  intolerable  despair  into 
which  it  had  plunged  her,  had  come  influenza.  There 
was  no  doubt — Nelly's  recollection  faced  it  candidly 
i — that  she  would  have  come  off  badly  but  for  Cicely. 
Bridget  had  treated  the  illness  on  the  hardening  plan, 
being  at  the  moment  slightly  touched  with  Christian 
Science.  Nelly  should  '  think  it  away.'  To  stay  in 
bed  and  give  in  was  folly.  She  meanwhile  had  found 
plenty  to  do  in  London,  and  was  away  for  long 
hours.  In  one  of  these  absences,  Cicely — having 
been  seized  with  a  sudden  hunger  for  the  flesh-pots 
of  *  town  ' — appeared  at  the  flat  with  her  maid.  She 
discovered  Nelly  Sarratt  in  bed,  and  so  weak  as  to 
be  hardly  capable  of  answering  any  question.  Mrs. 
Simpson  was  doing  her  best;  but  she  gave  an  indig- 
nant account  of  Bridget's  behaviour,  and  Cicely  at 
once  took  a  strong  line,  both  as  a  professional  nurse 
— of  sorts — and  as  mistress  of  the  flat.  Bridget, 
grimly  defensive,  was  peremptorily  put  on  one  side, 
and  Cicely  devoted  the  night  she  was  to  have  spent 
in  dancing  to  tending  her  half-conscious  guest.  In 
the  days  that  followed  she  fell,  quite  against  her 
will,  under  the  touching  charm  of  Nelly's  refinement, 
humility  and  sweetness.  Her  own  trenchant  and 
masterful  temper  was  utterly  melted,  for  the  time, 
by  Nelly's  helpless  state,  by  the  grief  which  threat- 
ened to  kill  her,  and  by  a  gratefulness  for  any  kind- 


'MISSING'  215 

ness  shewn  her,  which  seemed  to  Cicely  almost 
absurd. 

She  fell  in  love — impetuously — with  the  little 
creature  thus  thrown  upon  her  pity.  She  sent  for 
a  trained  nurse  and  their  own  doctor.  She  wired 
for  Hester  Martin,  and  in  forty-eight  hours  Bridget 
had  been  entirely  ousted,  and  Nelly's  state  had  begun 
to  shew  signs  of  improvement.  Bridget  took  the 
matter  stoically.  '  I  know  nothing  about  nursing,' 
she  said,  with  composure.  '  If  you  wish  to  look  after 
my  sister,  by  all  means  look  after  her.  Many  thanks. 
I  propose  to  go  and  stay  near  the  British  Museum, 
and  will  look  in  here  when  I  can.' 

So  she  departed,  and  Cicely  stayed  in  London 
for  three  weeks  until  Nelly  was  strong  enough  to 
go  to  Torquay.  Then,  reluctantly,  she  gave  up  her 
charge  to  Bridget,  she  being  urgently  wanted  at 
Carton,  and  Hester  at  Rydal.  Bridget  reappeared 
on  the  scene  with  the  same  sangfroid  as  she  had  left 
it.  She  had  no  intention  of  quarrelling  with  the  Far- 
rells  whatever  they  might  do;  and  in  an  eminently 
satisfactory  interview  with  Sir  William — quite  un- 
known to  Nelly — she  allowed  him  to  give  her  a 
cheque  which  covered  all  their  expenses  at  Torquay. 

Meanwhile  Nelly  had  discovered  Cicely's  secret — 
which  indeed  was  not  very  secret.  Captain  Mars- 
worth  had  appeared  in  London  for  the  purpose  of 
attending  his  Medical  Board,  and  called  at  the  flat. 
Nelly  was  by  that  time  on  the  sofa,  with  Cicely  keep- 
ing guard,  and  Nelly  could  sometimes  deaden  her 


216  'MISSING' 

own  consciousness  for  a  little  in  watching  the  two. 
What  were  they  after?  Marsworth's  ethical  enthu- 
siasms and  resentments,  the  prophetic  temper  that 
was  growing  upon  him  in  relation  to  the  war,  his 
impatience  of  idleness  and  frivolity  and  '  slackness,' 
of  all  modes  of  life  that  were  not  pitched  in  a  key 
worthy  of  that  continuous  sacrifice  of  England's 
youngest  and  noblest  that  was  going  on  perpetually 
across  the  Channel : — these  traits  in  him  made  it  very 
easy  to  understand  why,  after  years  of  philandering 
with  Cicely  Farrell,  he  was  now,  apparently,  alienated 
from  her,  and  provoked  by  her.  But  then,  why  did 
he  still  pursue  her? — why  did  he  still  lay  claim  to 
the  privileges  of  their  old  intimacy,  and  why  did 
Cicely  allow  him  to  do  so  ? 

At  last  one  evening,  after  a  visit  from  Mars- 
worth  which  had  been  one  jar  from  beginning  to 
end,  Cicely  had  suddenly  dropped  on  a  stool,  beside 
Nelly  on  the  sofa. 

'  What  an  intolerable  man ! '  she  said  with  crim- 
son cheeks.  '  Shall  I  tell  Simpson  not  to  let  him  in 
again  ? ' 

Nelly  looked  her  surprise,  for  as  yet  there  had 
been  no  confidence  on  this  subject  between  them. 
And  then  had  come  a  torrent — Cicely  walking  storm- 
ily  up  and  down  the  room,  and  pouring  out  her 
soul. 

The  result  of  which  outpouring  was  that  through 
all  the  anger  and  denunciation,  Nelly  very  plainly 
perceived  that  Cicely  was  a  captured  creature,  en- 


'MISSING'  217 

deavouring  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was  still 
free.  She  loved  Marsworth — and  hated  him.  She 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  give  up  for  his  sake 
the  *  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of  life,'  as  he 
clearly  would  endeavour  to  make  her  give  them  up, 
the  wild  bursts  of  gaiety  and  flirting  for  which  she 
periodically  rushed  up  to  town,  the  passion  for  dress, 
the  reckless  extravagance  with  which  it  pleased  her 
to  shock  him  whenever  they  met.  And  he  also — so 
it  seemed  to  Nelly — was  torn  by  contradictory  feel- 
ings. As  soon  as  Cicely  was  within  reach,  he  could 
not  keep  away  from  her;  and  yet  when  confronted 
with  her,  and  some  new  vagary,  invented  probably  to 
annoy  him,  though  he  might  refrain  *  even  from 
good  words,'  his  critical  mouth  and  eye  betrayed 
him,  and  set  the  offender  in  a  fury. 

However,  it  was  the  quarrels  between  these  two 
strange  lovers,  if  they  were  lovers,  that  had  made  a 
friendship,  warm  and  real — on  Cicely's  side  even 
impassioned — between  Nelly  and  Cicely.  For  Cicely 
had  at  last  found  someone — not  of  her  own  world — 
to  whom  she  could  talk  in  safety.  Yet  she  had 
treated  the  Sarratts  cavalierly  to  begin  with,  just 
because  they  were  outsiders,  and  because  '  Willy ' 
was  making  such  a  fuss  with  them;  for  she  was 
almost  as  easily  jealous  in  her  brother's  case  as  in 
Marsworth's.  But_now  Nelly's  sad  remotengssjrom 
ordinary  life,  her  very  social  insignificance,  and  the 
lack  of  any  links  between  her  and  the^grsat-Eajrell 
kinship  of  relations  and  friends,  made  her  company, 


2i8  'MISSING' 

and  her  soft,  listening  ways  specially  welcome  and 
soothing  to  Cicely's  excited  mood. 

During  the  latter  half  of  the  winter  they  had  cor- 
responded, though  Cicely  was  the  worst  of  letter- 
writers;  and  since  Nelly  and  her  sister  had  been  in 
Rydal  again  there  had  been  constant  meetings. 
Nelly's  confidences  in  return  for  Cicely's  were  not 
many  nor  frequent.  The  effects  of  grief  were  to  be 
seen  in  her  aspect  and  movements,  in  her  most 
pathetic  smile,  in  her  increased  dreaminess,  and  the 
inertia  against  which  she  struggled  in  vain.  Since 
May  began,  she  had  for  the  first  time  put  on  black. 
Nobody  had  dared  to  speak  to  her  about  it,  so 
sharply  did  the  black  veil  thrown  back  from  the  child- 
ish brow  intensify  the  impression  that  she  made,  as  of 
something  that  a  touch  might  break.  But  the  appear- 
ance of  the  widow's  dress  seemed  to  redouble  the 
tenderness  with  which  every  member  of  the  little 
group  of  people  among  whom  she  lived  treated  her — 
always  excepting  her  sister.  Nelly  had  in  vain  pro- 
tested to  Farrell  against  the  '  spoiling '  of  which  she 
was  the  object.  '  Spoiled  '  she  was,  and  it  was  clear 
both  to  Hester  and  Cicely,  after  a  time,  that 
though  she  had  the  will,  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
resist. 

Unless  on  one  point.  She  had  long  since  stopped 
all  subsidies  of  money  from  Farrell  through  Bridget, 
having  at  last  discovered  the  plain  facts  about  them. 
Her  letter  of  thanks  to  him  for  all  he  had  done  for 
her  was  at  once  so  touching  and  so  determined,  that 


'MISSING'  219 

he  had  not  dared  since  to  cross  her  will.  All  that 
he  now  found  it  possible  to  urge  was  that  the  sisters 
would  allow  him  to  lend  them  a  vacant  farmhouse  of 
his,  not  far  from  the  Loughrigg  Tarn  cottage.  Nelly 
had  been  so  far  unwilling;  it  was  clear  that  her  heart 
clung  to  the  Rydal  lodgings.  But  Hester  and  Cicely 
were  both  on  Farrell's  side.  The  situation  of  the 
farm  was  higher  and  more  bracing  than  Rydal ;  and 
both  Cicely  and  Farrell  cherished  the  notion  of 
making  it  a  home  for  Nelly,  until  indeed — 

At  this  point  Farrell  generally  succeeded  in  put- 
ting a  strong  rein  upon  his  thoughts,  as  part  of 
the  promise  he  had  made  to  Hester.  But  Cicely, 
who  was  much  cooler  and  more  matter  of  fact  than 
her  brother,  had  long  since  looked  further  ahead. 
Willy  was  in  love,  irrevocably  in  love  with  Nelly 
Sarratt.  That  had  been  plain  to  her  for  some  time. 
Before  those  days  in  the  flat,  when  she  herself  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Nelly,  and  before  the  disappear- 
ance of  George  Sarratt,  she  had  resented  Willy's 
absurd  devotion  to  a  little  creature  who,  for  all  her 
beauty,  seemed  to  Cicely  merely  an  insignificant  mem- 
ber of  the  middle  classes,  with  a  particularly  impos- 
sible sister.  And  as  to  the  notion  that  Mrs.  Sarratt 
might  become  at  some  distant  period  her  brother's 
wife,  Lady  Farrell  of  Carton,  Cicely  would  have 
received  it  with  scorn,  and  fought  the  realisation  of  it 
tooth  and  nail.  Yet  now  all  the  *  Farrell  feeling,' 
the  Farrell  pride,  in  this  one  instance,  at  any  rate, 


220  'MISSING' 

was  gone.  Why?  Cicely  didn't  know.  She  sup- 
posed first  because  Nelly  was  such  a  dear  creature, 
and  next  because  the  war  had  made  such  a  curious 
difference  in  things.  The  old  lines  were  being  rubbed 
out.  And  Cicely,  who  had  been  in  her  day  as  exclu- 
sively snobbish  as  any  other  well-born  damsel,  felt 
now  that  it  would  not  matter  in  the  least  if  they 
remained  rubbed  out.  Persons  who  '  did  things  '  by 
land  or  sea;  persons  who  invented  things;  persons 
with  ideas;  persons  who  had  the  art  of  making 
others  follow  them  into  the  jaws  of  death; — these 
were  going  to  be  the  aristocracy  of  the  future. 
Though  the  much  abused  aristocracy  of  the  present 
hadn't  done  badly  either! 

So  she  was  only  concerned  with  the  emotional 
aspects  of  her  brother's  state.  \^as  Nellvjnw  rrn- 
vinced  of  her  husband's  death? — was  that  what  her 
black  meant?  And  if  she  were  convinced,  and  it 
were  legally  possible  for  her  to  marry  again  and  all 
that — what  chance  would  there  be  for  Willy  ?  Cicely 
was  much  puzzled  by  Nelly's  relation  to  him.  She 
had  seen  many  signs,  pathetic  signs,  of  a  struggle  on 
Nelly's  side  against  Farrell's  influence;  especially 
in  the  time  immediately  following  her  first  return 
to  the  north  in  March.  She  had  done  her  best  then, 
it  seemed  to  Cicely,  to  do  without  him  and  to  turn 
to  other  interests  and  occupations  than  those  he  set 
her,  and  she  had  failed;  partly  no  doubt  owing  to 
her  physical  weakness,  which  had  put  an  end  to  many 
projects, — that  of  doing  week-end  munition  work  for 


'MISSING'  221 

instance — but  still  more,  surely,  to  Farrell's  own 
qualities.  '  He  is  such  a  charmer  with  women,' 
thought  Cicely,  half  smiling;  'that's  what  it  is.' 

By  which  she  meant  that  he  had  the  very  rare 
gift  of  tenderness;  of  being  able  to  make  a  woman 
feel,  that  as  a  human  being,  quite  apart  from  any 
question  of  passion,  she  interested  and  touched  him. 
It  was  just  sympathy,  she  supposed,  the  artistic  mag- 
netic quality  in  him,  which  made  him  so  attractive 
to  women,  and  women  so  attractive  to  him.  He  was 
no  longer  a  young  man  in  the  strict  sense ;  he  was  a 
man  of  forty,  with  the  prestige  of  great  accomplish- 
ment, and  a  wide  knowledge  of  life.  It  was  gener- 
ally supposed  that  he  had  done  with  love-affairs,  and 
women  instinctively  felt  it  safe  to  allow  him  a  per- 
sonal freedom  towards  them,  which  from  other  men 
would  have  offended  them.  He  might  pat  a  girl's 
shoulder,  or  lay  a  playful  grasp  on  a  woman's  arm, 
and  nobody  minded ;  it  was  a  sign  of  his  liking,  and 
most  people  wished  to  be  liked  by  him.  However 
he  never  allowed  himself  any  half-caress  of  the  kind 
towards  Nelly  Sarratt  now;  and  once  or  twice,  in 
the  old  days,  before  Sarratt's  disappearance,  Cicely 
had  fancied  that  she  had  seen  Nelly  check  rather 
sharply  one  of  these  demonstrations  of  Willy's  which 
were  so  natural  to  him,  and  in  general  so  uncon- 
scious and  innocent. 

And  now  he  never  attempted  them.  What  did 
that  mean  ?  Simply — so  Cicely  thought — that  he  was 
in  love,  and  dared  venture  such  things  no  longer. 


222  'MISSING' 

But  all  the  same  there  were  plenty  of  devices  open 
to  him  by  which  week  after  week  he  surrounded 
Nelly  with  a  network  of  care,  which  implied  that  he 
was  always  thinking  of  her;  which  were  in  fact  a 
caress,  breathing  a  subtle  and  restrained  devotion, 
more  appealing  than  anything  more  open.  And 
Cicely  seemed  to  see  Nelly  yielding — unconsciously; 
unconsciously  *  spoilt,'  and  learning  to  depend  on  the 
*  spoiler.'  Why  did  Hester  seem  so  anxious  always 
about  Farrell's  influence  with  Nelly — so  ready  to 
ward  him  off,  if  she  could?  For  after  all,  thought 
Cicely,  easily,  however  long  it  might  take  for  Nelly 
to  recover  her  hold  on  life,  and  to  clear  up  the  legal 
situation,  there  could  be  but  one  end  of  it.  Willy 
meant  to  marry  this  little  woman;  and  in  the  long 
run  no  woman  would  be  able  to  resist  him. 

The  friends  set  out  to  stroll  homewards  through 
the  long  May  evening,  talking  of  the  hideous  Irish 
news — how  incredible  amid  the  young  splendour  of 
the  Westmorland  May ! — or  of  the  progress  of  the 
war. 

Meanwhile  Bridget  Cookson  was  walking  to  meet 
them  from  the  Rydal  end  of  the  Lake.  She  was 
accompanied  by  a  Manchester  friend,  a  young  doc- 
tor, Howson  by  name,  who  had  known  the  sisters 
before  Nelly's  marriage.  He  had  come  to  Amble- 
side  in  charge  of  a  patient  that  morning,  and  was 
going  back  on  the  morrow,  and  then  to  France. 
Bridget  had  stumbled  on  him  in  Ambleside,  and  find- 


'MISSING'  223 

ing  he  had  a  free  evening  had  invited  him  to  come 
and  sup  with  them.  And  a  vivid  recollection  of 
Nelly  Cookson  as  a  girl  had  induced  him  to  accept. 
He  had  been  present  indeed  at  the  Sarratt  wedding, 
and  could  never  forget  Nelly  as  a  bride,  the  jessamine 
wreath  above  her  dark  eyes,  and  all  the  exquisite 
shapeliness  of  her  slight  form,  in  the  white  childish 
dress  of  fine  Indian  muslin,  which  seemed  to  him 
the  prettiest  bridal  garment  he  had  ever  seen.  And 
now — poor  little  soul ! 

4  You  think  she  still  hopes  ? ' 

Bridget  shrugged  heFshoulders. 

4  She  says  so.  But  shelias  put  on  mourning  at 
last — a  few  weeks  ago.' 

{  People  do  turn  up,  you  know,'  said  the  doctor 
musing.  '  There  have  been  some  wonderful  stories.' 

4  They  don't  turn  up  now,'  said  Bridget  positively 
— '  now  that  the  enquiries  are  done  properly.' 

1  Oh,  the  Germans  are  pretty  casual — and  the 
hospital  returns  are  far  from  complete,  I  hear. 
However  the  probabilities,  no  doubt,  are  all  on  the 
side  of  death.' 

4  The  War  Office  are  certain  of  it,'  said  Bridget 
with  emphasis.  4  But  it's  no  good  trying  to  persuade 
her.  I  don't  try.' 

4  No,  why  should  you  ?  Poor  thing !  Well,  I'm 

off  to  X next  week,'  said  the  young  man.  4 1 

shall  keep  my  eyes  open  there,  in  case  anything 
about  him  should  turn  up.' 

Bridget  frowned  slightly,  and  her  face  flushed. 


224  'MISSING' 

'  Should  you  know  him  again,  if  you  saw  him  ? ' 
she  asked,  abruptly. 

1 1  think  so,'  said  the  doctor  with  slight  hesitation, 
*  I  remember  him  very  well  at  the  wedding.  Tall 
and  slight? — not  handsome  exactly,  but  a  good- 
looking  gentlemanly  chap?  Oh  yes,  I  remember 
him.  But  of  course,  to  be  alive  now,  if  by  some 
miraculous  chance  he  were  alive,  and  not  to  have 
let  you  know — why  he  must  have  had  some  brain 
mischief — paralysis — or " 

1  He  isn't  alive ! '  said  Bridget  impatiently.  {  The 
War  Office  have  no  doubts  whatever.' 

Howson  was  rather  surprised  at  the  sudden  acer- 
bity of  her  tone.  But  his  momentary  impression 
was  immediately  lost  in  the  interest  roused  in  him 
by  the  emergence  from  the  wood,  in  front,  of  Nelly 
and  Cicely.  He  was  a  warm-hearted  fellow,  himself 
just  married,  and  the  approach  of  the  black-veiled 
figure,  which  he  had  last  seen  in  bridal  white,  touched 
him  like  an  incident  in  a  play. 

Nelly  recognised  him  from  a  short  distance,  and 
went  a  little  pale. 

*  Who  is  that  with  your  sister?  '  asked  Cicely. 

1  It  is  a  man  we  knew  in  Manchester, — Doctor 
Howson.' 

1  Did  you  expect  him?  ' 

'  Oh  no.'  After  a  minute  she  added — '  He  was 
at  our  wedding.  I  haven't  seen  him  since.' 

Cicely  was  sorry  for  her.  But  when  the  walkers 
met,  Nelly  greeted  the  young  man  very  quietly.  He 


MISSING' 


225 


himself  was  evidently  moved.  He  held  her  hand  a 
little,  and  gave  her  a  quick,  scrutinising  look.  Then 
he  moved  on  beside  her,  and  Cicely,  in  order  to 
give  Nelly  the  opportunity  of  talking  to  him  for 
which  she  evidently  wished,  was  forced  to  carry  off 
Bridget,  and  endure  her  company  patiently  all  the 
way  home. 

When  Nelly  and  the  doctor  arrived,  following 
close  on  the  two  in  front,  Cicely  cried  out  that  Nelly 
must  go  and  lie  down  at  once  till  supper.  She  looked 
indeed  a  deplorable  little  wraith;  and  the  doctor, 
casting,  again,  a  professional  eye  on  her,  backed  up 
Cicely. 

Nelly  smiled,  resisted,  and  finally  disappeared. 

1  You'll  have  to  take  care  of  her,'  said  Howson 
to  Bridget.  *  She  looks  to  me  as  if  she  couldn't 
stand  any  strain.' 

*  Well,  she's  not  going  to  have  any.     This  place 
is  quiet  enough!     She's  been  talking  of  munition- 
work,  but  of  course  we  didn't  let  her.' 

Cicely  took  the  young  man  aside  and  expounded 
her  brother's  plan  of  the  farm  on  the  western  side 
of  Loughrigg.  Howson  asked  questions  about  its 
aspect,  and  general  comfort,  giving  his  approval  in 
the  end. 

*  Oh,  she'll  pull  through,'  he  said 

must  go"slow7  This  kind  of  loss  is  harder  fn  hnr 
physically — than  death  straight 

to  Bridget — 'to  make  all  the  en- 
quiries I  can.    She  asked  me  that  at  once.' 


226  'MISSING' 

After  supper,  just  as  Howson  was  departing,  Far- 
rell  appeared,  having  driven  himself  over  through 
the  long  May  evening,  ostensibly  to  take  Cicely 
home,  but  really  for  the  joy  of  an  hour  in  Nelly's 
company. 

He  sat  beside  her  in  the  garden,  after  Howson's 
departure,  reading  to  her,  by  the  lingering  light,  the- 
poems  of  a  great  friend  of  his  who  had  been  killed 
at  Gallipoli.  Nelly  was  knitting,  but  her  needles 
were  often  laid  upon  her  knee,  while  she  listened 
with  all  her  mind,  and  sometimes  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  that  were  hidden  by  the  softly  dropping  dusk. 
She  said  little,  but  what  she  did  say  came  now  from 
a  greatly  intensified  inner  life,  and  a  sharpened  intel- 
ligence; while  all  the  time,  the  charm  that  belonged 
to  her  physical  self,  her  voice,  her  movements,  was  at 
work  on  Farrell,  so  that  he  felt  his  hour  with  her 
a  delight  after  his  hard  day's  work.  And  she  too 
rested  in  his  presence,  and  his  friendship.  It  was  not 
possible  now  for  her  to  rebuff  him,  to  refuse  his  care. 
She  had  tried,  tried  honestly,  as  Cicely  saw,  to  live 
Independently — to  *  endure  hardness.'  And  the  at- 
tempt had  broken  down.  The  strange,  protesting" 
feeling,  too,  that  she  was  doing  some  wrong  to 
George  by  accepting  it  was  passing  away.  She  was 
George's,  she  would  always  be  his,  to  her  dying  day; 
but  to  live  without  being  loved,  to  tear  herself  from 
those  who  wished  to  love  her— for  that  she  4»d 
proved  too  weak.  She  knew  it,  and  was  not  uncon- 
scious of  a  certain  moral  defeat;  as  she  looked  out 


'MISSING'  227 

upon   all  the   strenuous   and  splendid  things   that 
women  were  doing  in  the  war. 

Farrell  and  Cicely  sped  homeward  through  a 
night  that  was  all  but  day.  Cicely  scarcely  spoke; 
she  was  thinking  of  Marsworth.  Farrell  had  still 
in  his  veins  the  sweetness  of  Nelly's  presence.  But 
there  were  other  thoughts  too  in  his  mind,  the 
natural  thoughts  of  an  Englishman  at  war.  Once, 
over  their  heads,  through  the  luminous  northern  sky, 
there  passed  an  aeroplane  flying  south-west  high 
above  the  fells.  Was  it  coming  from  the  North 
Sea,  from  the  neighbourhood  of  that  invincible  Fleet, 
on  which  all  hung,  by  which  all  was  sustained?  He 
thought  of  the  great  ships,  and  the  men  commanding 
them,  as  greyhounds  straining  in  the  leash.  What 
touch  of  fate  would  let  them  loose  at  last? 

The  Carton  hospital  was  now  full  of  men  fresh 
from  the  front.  The  casualties  were  endless.  A 
thousand  a  night  often  along  the  French  front — and 
yet  no  real  advance.  The  far-flung  battle  was  prac- 
tically at  a  stand-still.  And  beyond,  the  chaos  in 
the  Balkans,  the  Serbian  debacle!  No — the  world 
was  full  of  lamentation,  mourning  and  woe;  and  who 
could  tell  how  Armageddon  would  turn  ?  His  quick 
mind  travelled  through  all  the  alternative  possibili- 
ties ahead,  on  fire  for  his  country.  But  always,  after 
each  digression  through  the  problems  of  the  war, 
thought  came  back  to  the  cottage  at  Rydal,  and 
Nelly  on  the  lawn,  her  white  throat  emerging  from 


228  'MISSING' 

the  thin  black  dress,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap, 
her  eyes  turned  to  him  as  he  read. 

And  all  the  time  it  was  just  conceivable  that 
Sarratt  might  still  be  discovered.  At  that  thought, 
the  summer  night  darkened. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  the  summer  of  1916,  a  dark  and  miserable 
June,  all  chilly  showers  and  lowering  clouds, 
followed  on  the  short-lived  joys  of  May.  But 
all  through  it,  still  more  through  the  early  weeks  of 
July,  the  spiritual  heaven  for  English  hearts  was 
brightening.  In  June,  two  months  before  she  was 
expected  to  move,  Russia  flung  herself  on  the  Eastern 
front  of  the  enemy.  Brussiloff's  victorious  advance 
drove  great  wedges  into  the  German  line,  and  the 
effect  on  that  marvellous  six  months'  battle,  which 
we  foolishly  call  the  Siege  of  Verdun,  was  soon  to 
be  seen.  Hard  pressed  they  were,  those  heroes  of 
Verdun ! — how  hard  pressed  no  one  in  England  knew 
outside  the  War  Office  and  the  Cabinet,  till  the  worst 
was  over,  and  the  Crown  Prince,  '  with  his  dead 
and  his  shame,'  had  recoiled  in  sullen  defeat  from  the 
prey  that  need  fear  him  no  more. 

Then  on  the  first  of  July,  the  British  army,  after  a 
bombardment  the  like  of  which  had  never  yet  been 
seen  in  war,  leapt  from  its  trenches  on  the  Somme 
front,  and  England  held  her  breath  while  her  new 
Armies  proved  of  what  stuff  they  were  made.  In 
those  great  days  '  there  were  no  stragglers — none ! ' 
said  an  eye-witness  in  amazement.  The  incredible 
229 


230  'MISSING* 

became  everywhere  the  common  and  the  achieved. 
Life  was  laid  down  as  at  a  festival.  *  From  your 
happy  son  ' — wrote  a  boy,  as  a  heading  to  his  last 
letter  on  this  earth. 

And  by  the  end  of  July  the  sun  was  ablaze  again 
on  the  English  fields  and  harvests.  Days  of  amazing 
beauty  followed  each  other  amid  the  Westmorland 
fells;  with  nights  of  moonlight  on  sleeping  lakes,  and 
murmuring  becks;  or  nights  of  starlit  dark,  with 
that  mysterious  glow  in  the  north-west  which  in  the 
northern  valleys  so  often  links  the  evening  with  the 
dawn. 

How  often  through  these  nights  Nelly  Sarratt  lay 
awake,  in  her  new  white  room  in  Mountain  Ash 
Farm ! — the  broad  low  window  beside  her  open  to 
the  night,  to  that '  Venus's  Looking  Glass  '  of  Lough- 
rigg  Tarn  below  her,  and  to  the  great  heights  beyond, 
now  dissolving  under  the  moon-magic,  now  rosy  with 
dawn,  and  now  wreathed  in  the  floating  cloud  which 
crept  in  light  and  silver  along  the  purple  of  the  crags. 
To  have  been  lifted  to  this  height  above  valley  and 
stream,  had  raised  and  strengthened  her,  soul  and 
body,  as  Farrell  and  Hester  had  hoped.  Her  soul, 
perhaps,  rather  than  her  body;  for  she  was  still  the 
frailest  of  creatures,  without  visible  ill,  and  yet 
awakening  in  every  quick-eyed  spectator  the  same 
misgiving  as  in  the  Manchester  doctor.  But  she  was 
calmer,  less  apparently  absorbed  in  her  own  grief; 
though  only,  perhaps,  the  more  accessible  to  the 
world  misery  of  the  war.  In  these  restless  nights, 


'MISSING'  231 

her  remarkable  visualising  power,  which  had  only 
thriven,  it  seemed,  upon  the  flagging  of  youth  and 
health,  carried  her  through  a  series  of  waking 
dreams,  almost  always  concerned  with  the  war: 
Under  the  stimulus  of  Farrell's  intelligence,  she 
had  become  a  close  student  of.  the  war.  She  read 
much,  and  what  she  read,  his  living  contact  with  men 
and  affairs — with  that  endless. stream  of  wounded  in 
particular,  which  passed  through  the  Carton  hospital 
— and  his  graphic  talk  illumined  for  her.  Then  in 
the  night  arose  the  train  of  visions;  the  trenches — 
always  the  trenches;  those  hideous  broken  woods  of 
the  Somme  front,  where  the  blasted  soil  has  sucked 
the  best  life-blood  of  England;  those  labyrinthine 
diggings  and  delvings  in  a  tortured  earth,  made  for 
the  Huntings  of  Death — '  Death  that  lays  man  at  his 
length  ' — for  panting  pursuit,  and  breathless  flight, 
and  the  last  crashing  horror  of  the  bomb,  in  some 
hell-darkness  at  the  end  of  all : — these  haunted  her. 
Or  she  saw  visions  of  men  swinging  from  peak  to 
peak  above  fathomless  depths  of  ice  and  snow  on  the 
Italian  front;  climbing  precipices  where  the  foot 
holds  by  miracle,  and  where  not  only  men  but  guns 
must  go ;  or  vanishing,  whole  lines  of  them,  awfully 
forgotten  in  the  winter  snows,  to  reappear  a 
frozen  and  ghastly  host,  with  the  melting  of  the 
spring. 

And  always,  mingled  with  everything,  in  the  tense 
night  hours — that  slender  khaki  figure,  tearing  the 
leaf  from  his  sketch-book,  leaping  over  the  para- 


232  'MISSING' 

dos, — falling — in  the  No  Man's  Land.    But,  by  day, 
the  obsession  of  it  now  often  left  her. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  enjoy  her  new  home. 
Farrell  had  taken  an  old  Westmorland  farm,  with 
its  white-washed  porch,  its  small-paned  windows  out- 
lined in  white  on  the  grey  walls,  its  low  raftered 
rooms,  and  with  a  few  washes  of  colour — pure  blue, 
white,  daffodil  yellow — had  made  all  bright  within, 
to  match  the  bright  spaces  of  air  and  light  without. 
There  was  some  Westmorland  oak,  some  low  chairs, 
a  sofa  and  a  piano  from  the  old  Manchester  house, 
some  etchings  and  drawings,  hung  on  the  plain  walls 
by  Farrell  himself,  with  the  most  fastidious  care; 
and  a  few — a  very  few  things — from  his  own  best 
stores,  which  Hester  allowed  him  to  *  house  '  with 
Nelly  from  time  to  time — picture,  or  pot,  or  tapestry. 
She  played  watch-dog  steadily,  not  resented  by  Far- 
rell, and  unsuspected  by  Nelly.  Her  one  aim  was 
that  the  stream  of  Nelly's  frail  life  should  not  be 
muddied  by  any  vile  gossip ;  and  she  achieved  it.  The 
few  neighbours  who  had  made  acquaintance  with 
1  little  Mrs.  Sarratt '  had,  all  of  them  been  tacitly, 
nay  eagerly  willing,  to  take  their  cue  from  Hester. 
To  be  vouched  for  by  Hester  Martin,  the  *  wise 
woman '  and  saint  of  a  country-side,  was  enough. 
It  was  understood  that  the  poor  little  widow  had 
been  commended  to  the  care  of  William  Farrell  and 
his  sister,  by  the  young  husband  whose  gallant  death 
was  officially  presumed  by  the  War  Office.  Of 
course,  Mrs.  Sarratt,  poor  child,  believed  that  he  was 


'MISSING'  233 

still  alive — that  was  so  natural!  But  that  hope 
would  die  down  in  time.  And  then — anything  might 
happen ! 

Meanwhile,  elderly  husbands — the  sole  male  in- 
habitants left  in  the  gentry  houses  of  the  district — • 
who  possessed  any  legal  knowledge,  informed  their 
wives  that  no  one  could  legally  presume  the  death 
of  a  vanished  husband,  under  seven  years,  unless 
indeed  they  happen  to  have  a  Scotch  domicile,  in 
which  case  two  years  was  enough.  Seven  years! — 
preposterous ! — in  time  of  war,  said  the  wives.  To 
which  the  husbands  would  easily  reply  that,  in  such 
cases  as  Mrs.  Sarratt's,  the  law  indeed  might  be  '  an 
ass,'  but  there  were  ways  round  it.  Mrs.  Sarratt 
might  re-marry,  and  no  one  could  object,  or  would 
object.  Only — if  Sarratt  did  rise  from  the  dead,  the 
second  marriage  would  be  ipso  facto  null  and  void. 
But  as  Sarratt  was  clearly  dead,  what  did  that 
matter? 

So  that  the  situation,  though  an  observed  one — 
for  how  could  the  Farrell  comings  and  goings,  the 
Farrell  courtesies  and  benefactions,  possibly  be  hid? 
— was  watched  only  by  friendly  and  discreet  eyes, 
thanks  always  to  Hester.  Most  people  liked  Wil- 
liam Farrell;  even  that  stricter  sect,  who  before  the 
war  had  regarded  him  as  a  pleasure  loving  dilettante, 
and  had  been  often  scandalised  by  his  careless  levity 
in  the  matter  of  his  duties  as  a  landlord  and  county 
magnate.  '  Bill  Farrell '  had  never  indeed  evicted 
or  dealt  hardly  with  any  mortal  tenant.  He  had 


234  'MISSING' 

merely  neglected  and  ignored  them ;  had  cared  not  a 
brass  farthing  about  the  rates  which  he  or  they 
paid — why  should  he  indeed,  when  he  was  so  abomi- 
nably rich  from  other  sources  than  land? — nothing 
about  improving  their  cows,  or  sheep  or  pigs;  noth- 
ing about  *  intensive  culture,'  or  jam  or  poultry,  or 
any  of  the  other  fads  with  which  the  persons  who 
don't  farm  plague  the  persons  who  do;  while  the 
very  mention  of  a  public  meeting,  or  any  sort  of 
public  duty,  put  him  to  instant  flight.  Yet  even  the 
faddists  met  him  with  pleasure,  and  parted  from 
him  with  regret.  He  took  himself  '  so  jolly  lightly  ' ; 
you  couldn't  expect  him  to  take  other  people  seri- 
ously. Meanwhile,  his  genial  cheery  manner  made 
him  a  general  favourite,  and  his  splendid  presence, 
combined  with  his  possessions  and  his  descent,  was 
universally  accepted  as  a  kind  of  Cumberland  asset, 
to  which  other  counties  could  hardly  lay  claim.  If  he 
wanted  the  little  widow,  why  certainly,  let  him  have 
her!  It  was  magnificent  what  he  had  done  for  his 
hospital;  when  nobody  before  the  war  had  thought 
him  capable  of  a  stroke  of  practical  work.  Real 
good  fellow,  Farrell !  Let  him  go  in  and  win.  His 
devotion,  and  poor  Nelly's  beauty,  only  infused  a 
welcome  local  element  of  romance  into  the  ever- 
darkening  scene  of  war. 

The  first  anniversary  of  Sarratt's  disappearance 
was  over.  Nelly  had  gone  through  it  quite  alone. 
Bridget  was  in  London,  and  Nelly  had  said  to  Cicely 


'MISSING'  235 

— '  Don't  come  for  a  few  days — nor  Sir  William — 
please !  I  shall  be  all  right.' 

They  obeyed  her,  and  she  spent  her  few  days 
partly  on  the  fells,  and  partly  in  endless  knitting  and 
sewing  for  a  war-workroom  recently  started  in  her 
immediate  neighbourhood.  The  emotion  to  which 
she  surrendered  herself  would  soon  reduce  her  to  a 
dull  vacancy ;  and  then  she  would  sit  passive,  not 

fa™jng..  hfT"*!*  «•"  rfiinlr,  alnnp  In  ffrf  nl^  raftered 
room,  or  in  fhe  hit-  nf  garrfc^  putsiffo  with  its  phloxes 
and  golden  rods ;  her  small  fingej^j5^r^ing^je.Qdls ssly 

— till  the  wave  oTTeeling  and  memory  returned  upon 
her.  Those  few  days  were  a  kind  of  *  retreat,'  dur- 
ing which  she  lived  absorbed  in  the  recollections  of 
her  short,  married  life,  and,  above  all,  in  which  she 
tried  piteously  and  bravely  to  make  clear  to  herself 
what  she  believed;  what  sort  of  faith  was  in  her  for 
the  present  and  the  future.  It  often  seemed  to  her  that 
during  the  year  since  George's  death,  her  mind  had 
been  wrenched  and  hammered  into  another  shape. 
It  had  grown  so  much  older,  she  scarcely  knew  it 
herself.  Doubts  she  had  never  known  before  had 
come  to  her;  but  also,  intermittently,  a  much  keener 
faith.  Oh,  yes,  she  believed  in  God.  She  must;  not 
only  because  George  had  believed  in  Him,  but  also 
because  she,  her  very  self,  had  been  conscious,  again 
and  again,  in  the  night  hours,  or  on  the  mountains, 
of  ineffable  upliftings  and  communings,  of  flashes 
through  the  veil  of  things.  And  so  there  must  be 
another  world;  because  the  God  she  guessed  at  thus, 


236  'MISSING' 

with  sudden  adoring  insight,  could  not  have  made  her 
George,  only  to  destroy  him;  only  to  give  her  to  him 
for  a  month,  and  then  strike  him  from  her  for  ever. 
The  books  she  learnt  to  know  through  Farrell,  be- 
longing to  that  central  modern  literature,  which  is  so 
wholly  sceptical  that  the  '  great  argument  *  itself 
has  almost  lost  interest  for  those  who  are  producing 
it,  often  bewildered  her,  but  did  not  really  affect  her. 
Religion — a  vague,  but  deeply-felt  religion — soothed 
and  sheltered  her.  But  she  did  not  want  to  talk 
about  it. 

After  these  days  were  over,  she  emerged  conscious 
of  some  radical  change.  She  seemed  to  have  been 
walking  with  George  *  on  the  other  side/  and  to  have 
left  him  there — for  a  while.  She  now  really  believed 
him  dead,  and  that  she  had  got  to  live  her  life 
without  him.  This  first  full  and  sincere  admission  of 
her  loss  tranquillised  her.  All  the  more  reason  now 
that  she  should  turn  to  the  dear  friendships  that  life 
still  held,  should  live  in  and  for  them,  and  follow 
where  they  led,  through  the  years  before  her.  Far- 
rell, Cicely,  Hester — they  stood  between  her  weak- 
ness— oh  how  conscious,  how  scornfully  conscious, 
she  was  of  it! — and  sheer  desolation.  Cicely, 
4  Willy,' — for  somehow  she  and  he  had  slipped  al- 
most without  knowing  it  into  Christian  names — had 
become  to  her  as  brother  and  sister.  And  Hester 
too — so  strong! — so  kind! — was  part  of  her  life; 
severe  sometimes,  but  bracing.  Nelly  was  conscious, 
indeed,  occasionally,  that  something  in  Hester  dis- 


'MISSING'  237 

approved  something  in  her.  '  But  it  would  be  all 
right,'  she  thought,  wearily,  *  if  only  I  were  stronger.' 
Did  she  mean  physically  or  morally?  The  girl's 
thought  did  not  distinguish. 

'  I  believe  you  want  me  "  hatched  over  again  and 
hatched  different  "  I '  she  said  one  evening  to  Hester, 
as  she  laid  her  volume  of  *  Adam  Bede  '  aside. 

'  Do  I  ever  say  so? ' 

1  No — but — if  you  were  me — you  wouldn't  stop 
here  moping!'  said  Nelly,  with  sudden  passion. 
1  You'd  strike  out — do  something ! ' 

'  With  these  hands? '  said  Hester,  raising  one  of 
them,  and  looking  at  it  pitifully.  '  My  dear — does 
Bridget  feed  you  properly?  ' 

*  I   don't  know.     I  never  think  about  it.     She 
settles  it.' 

*  Why  do  you  let  her  settle  it? ' 

'  She  will  I '  cried  Nelly,  sitting  upright  in  her 
chair,  her  eyes  bright  and  cheeks  flushing,  as  though 
something  in  Hester's  words  accused  her.  '  I  couldn't 
stop  her!  ' 

4  Well,  but  when  she's  away?  ' 

'  Then  Mrs.  Rowe  settles  it,'  said  Nelly,  half 
laughing.  '  I  never  enquire.  What  does  it  matter?  ' 

She  put  down  her  knitting,  and  her  wide,  sad 
eyes  followed  the  clouds  as  they  covered  the  purple 
breast  of  the  Langdales,  which  rose  in  threatening, 
thunder  light,  beyond  the  steely  tarn  in  front.  Hes- 
ter watched  her  anxiously.  How  lovely  was  the 
brown  head,  with  its  short  curls  enclosing  the  deli- 


238  'MISSING' 

cate  oval  of  the  face !  But  Nelly's  lack  of  grip  on 
life,  of  any  personal  demand,  of  any  healthy  natural 
egotism,  whether  towards  Bridget,  or  anybody  else, 
was  very  disquieting  to  Hester.  In  view  of  the  situ- 
ation which  the  older  woman  saw  steadily  approach- 
ing, how  welcome  would  have  been  some  signs  of  a 
greater  fighting  strength  in  the  girl's  nature ! 

But  Nelly  had  made  two  friends  since  the  migra- 
tion to  the  farm  with  whom  at  any  rate  she  laughed ; 
and  that,  as  Hester  admitted,  was  something. 

One  was  a  neighbouring  farmer,  an  old  man, 
with  splendid  eyes,  under  dark  bushy  brows,  fine 
ascetic  features,  grizzled  hair,  and  a  habit  of  carry- 
ing a  scythe  over  his  shoulder  which  gave  him  the 
look  of  '  Old  Father  Time,'  out  for  the  mowing  of 
men.  The  other  was  the  little  son  of  a  neighbouring 
parson,  an  urchin  of  eight,  who  had  succumbed 
to  an  innocent  passion  for  the  pretty  lady  at  the 
farm. 

One  radiant  October  afternoon,  Nelly  carried  out 
a  chair  and  some  sketching  things  into  the  garden. 
But  the  scheme  Farrell  had  suggested  to  her,  of 
making  a  profession  of  her  drawing,  had  not  come 
to  much.  Whether  it  was  the  dying  down  of  hope, 
and  therewith  of  physical  energy,  or  whether  she  had 
been  brought  up  sharp  against  the  limits  of  her  small 
and  graceful  talent,  and  comparing  herself  with  Far- 
rell, thought  it  no  use  to  go  on — in  any  case,  she 
had  lately  given  it  up,  except  as  an  amusement.  But 


'MISSING'  239 

there  are  days  when  the  humblest  artist  feels  the 
creative  stir;  and  on  this  particular  afternoon  there 
were  colours  and  lights  abroad  on  the  fells,  now 
dyed  red  with  withering  fern,  and  overtopped  by 
sunny  cloud,  that  could  not  be  resisted.  She  put 
away  the  splints  she  was  covering,  and  spread  out  her 
easel. 

And  presently,  through  every  bruised  and  tired 
sense,  as  she  worked  and  worked,  the  '  Eternal  Foun- 
tain of  that  Heavenly  Beauty  '  distilled  His  constant 
balm.  She  worked  on,  soothed  and  happy. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  sound  at  the  gate. 
A  child  looked  in — black  tumbled  hair,  dark  eyes,  a 
plain  but  most  engaging  countenance. 

'  I'm  tomin  in,'  he  announced,  and  without  any 
more  ado,  came  in.  Nelly  held  out  a  hand  and  kissed 
him. 

1  You  must  be  very  good.' 

*  I  is  good,'  said  the  child,  radiantly. 

Nelly  spread  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  on,  and  provided 
him  with  a  piece  of  paper,  some  coloured  chalks  and 
a  piece  of  mill  board.  He  turned  over  on  his  front 
and  plunged  into  drawing — 

Silence — till  Nelly  asked — 

'What  are  you  drawing,  Tommy?  ' 

'  Haggans  and  Hoons,'  said  a  dreamy  voice,  the 
voice  of  one  absorbed. 

'  I  forget ' — said  Nelly  gravely — '  which  are  the 
good  ones? ' 

'  The  Hoons  are  good.    The  Haggans  are  awfully 


24o  'MISSING' 

wicked ! '  said  the  child,  slashing  away  at  his  drawing 
with  bold  vindictive  strokes. 

1  Are  you  drawing  a  Haggan,  Tommy? ' 

I  Yes.' 

He  held  up  a  monster,  half  griffin,  half  crocodile, 
for  her  to  see,  and  she  heartily  admired  it. 
'Where  do  the  Haggans  live,  Tommy?' 

*  In  Jupe,'  said  the  child,  again  drawing  busily. 

*  You  mean  Jupiter  ?  ' 

I 1  don't! '  said  Tommy  reproachfully,   *  I   said 
Jupe,  and  I  mean    Jupe.    Perhaps ' — he  conceded, 
courteously — '  I  may  have  got  the  idea  from  that 
other  place.    But  it's  quite  different.    You  do  believe 
it's  quite  different — don't  you  ?  ' 

'  Certainly,'  said  Nelly. 

*  I'm  glad  of  that — because — well,  because  I  can't 
be  friends  with  people  that  say  it  isn't  different. 
You  do  see  that,  don't  you?  ' 

Nelly  assured  him  she  perfectly  understood,  and 
then  Tommy  rolled  over  on  his  back,  and  staring  at 
the  sky,  began  to  talk  in  mysterious  tones  of  '  Jupe,' 
and  the  beings  that  lived  in  it,  Haggans,  and  Hoons, 
lions  and  bears,  and  white  mice.  His  voice  grew 
dreamier  and  dreamier.  Nelly  thought  he  was 
asleep,  and  she  suddenly  found  herself  looking  at  the 
little  figure  on  the  grass  with  a  passionate  hunger. 
If  such  a  living  creature  belonged  to  her — to  call  her 
its  very  own — to  cling  to  her  with  its  dear  chubby 
hands ! 

She  bent  forward,  her  eyes  wet,  above  the  uncon- 


'MISSING'  241 

scious  Tommy.  But  a  step  on  the  road  startled  her, 
and  raising  her  head  she  saw  *  Old  Father  Time,' 
with  scythe  on  shoulder,  leaning  on  the  little  gate 
which  led  from  the  strip  of  garden  to  the  road,  and 
looking  at  her  with  the  expression  which  implied  a 
sarcastic  view  of  things  in  general,  and  especially  of 
'  gentlefolk.'  But  he  was  favourably  inclined  to 
Mrs.  Sarratt,  and  when  Nelly  invited  him  in,  he 
obeyed  her,  and  grounding  his  scythe,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  gun,  he  stood  leaning  upon  it,  indulgently 
listening  while  she  congratulated  him  on  a  straage 
incident  which,  as  she  knew  from  Hester,  had  lately 
occurred  to  him. 

A  fortnight  before,  the  old  man  had  received  a 
letter  from  the  captain  of  his  son's  company  in 
France  sympathetically  announcing  to  him  the  death 
in  hospital  of  his  eldest  son,  from  severe  wounds 
received  in  a  raid,  and  assuring  him  he  might  feel 
complete  confidence  *  that  everything  that  could  be 
done  for  your  poor  boy  has  been  done.' 

The  news  had  brought  woe  to  the  cottage  where 
the  old  man  and  his  wife  liv'e'll  alune,  MIILC  the  fledg- 
ing of  their  sturdy  brood,  under  a  spur  otj^ojagtogg- 
The  wife,  being  now  a  feeble  body,  had  taken  to  her 
bed  under  the  shock  of  gnef ;  the  old  man  had  gone 
to  his  work  as  usual,  *  nobbut  a  bit  queerer  in  his 
wits,'  according  to  the  farmer  who  employed  him. 
Then  after  three  days  came  a  hurried  letter  of 
apology  from  the  captain,  and  a  letter  from  the 
chaplain,  to  say  there  had  been_a__mjas±-fieprpfable 


242  'MISSING' 

mistake,  and  '  your  son,  I  am  glad  to  say,  was  only 
slightly  wounded,  and  is  doing  well !  ' 

Under  so  much  contradictory  emdtlon,  old  Back- 
house's balance  had  wavered  a  good  deal.  He  re- 
ceived Nelly's  remarks  with  a  furtive  smile,  as 
though  he  were  only  waiting  for  her  to  have  done, 
and  when  they  ceased,  he  drew  a  letter  slowly  from 
his  pocket. 

*  D'ye  see  that,  Mum  ? ' 

Nelly  nodded. 

Tse  juist  gotten  it  from  t'  Post  Office.  They 
woant  gie  ye  noothin'  till  it's  forced  oot  on  'em. 
But  I  goa  regular,  an  to-day  owd  Jacob — 'at's  him 
as  keps  t'  Post  Office — handed  it  ower.  It's  from 
Donald,  sure  enoof.' 

He  held  it  up  triumphantly.  Nelly's  heart  leapt — 
and  sank.  How  often  in  the  first_montlis_-Qf  her 
grief  had  she  seen— ^irTVisions — that  blessed  sym- 
bolic letter  held  up  by  soyne  m'ni^p*-'"g  fpnH ! — 
only  to  fall  from  the  ecstasy  of  the  dream  into 
blacker  depths,  of  pain. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Backhouse,  I'm  so  glad! '  was  all  she 
could  find  to  say.  But  her  sweet  trembling  face 
spoke  for  her.  After  a  pause,  she  added — '  Does  he 
write  with  his  own  hand?  ' 

4  You  mun  see  for  yorselV  He  held  it  out  to  her. 
She  looked  at  it  mystified. 

'  But  it's  not  opened ! ' 

1 1  hadna  juist  me  spectacles,'  said  Father  Time, 
cautiously.  *  Mebbee  yo'll  read  it  to  me.' 


'MISSING'  243 

*  But  it's  to  his  mother ! '  cried  Nelly.     *  I  can't 
open  your  wife's  letter !  ' 

1  You  needn't  trooble  aboot  that.  You  read  it, 
Mum.  There'll  be  noothin'  in  it.' 

He  made  her  read  it.  There  was  nothing  in  it.  It 
was  just  a  nice  letter  from  a  good  boy,  saying  that  he 
had  been  knocked  over  in  *  a  bit  of  a  scrap,'  but  was 
nearly  all  right,  and  hoped  his  father  and  mother 
were  well,  '  as  it  leaves  me  at  present.'  But  when 
it  was  done,  Father  Time  took  off  his  hat,  bent  his 
grey  head,  and  solemnly  thanked  his  God,  in  broad 
Westmorland.  Nelly's  eyes  swam,  as  she  too  bowed 
the  head,  thinking  of  another  who  would  never  come 
back;  and  Tommy,  thumb  in  mouth,  leant  against 
her,  listening  attentively. 

At  the  end  of  the  thanksgiving  however,  Back- 
house raised  his  head  briskly. 

'  Not  that  I  iver  believed  that  foolish  yoong  mon 
as  wrote  me  that  Dick  wor  dead,'  he  said,  con- 
temptuously. '  Bit  it's  as  weel  to  git  things  clear.' 

Nelly  heartily  agreed,  adding — 

*  I  may  be  going  to  London  next  week,  Mr.  Back- 
house.    You  say  your  son  will  be  in  the  London 
Hospital.    Shall  I  go  and  see  him?  ' 

Backhouse  looked  at  her  cautiously. 

*  I   doan't  know,    Mum.    His   moother  will   be 
goin',  likely.' 

*  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  intrude,  Mr.  Backhouse. 
But  if  she  doesn't  go?  ' 

*  Well,  Mum ;  I  will  say  you've  a  pleasant  coonte- 


244  'MISSING' 

nance,  though  yo're  not  juist  sich  a  thrivin'  body  as 
a'd  like  to  see  yer.  But  theer's  mony  people  as  du 
more  harm  nor  good  by  goin'  to  sit  wi'  sick  foak.' 

Nelly  meekly  admitted  it;  and  then  she  suggested 
that  she  might  be  the  bearer  of  anything  Mrs.  Back- 
house would  like  to  send  her  son — clothes,  for  in- 
stance ?  The  old  man  thawed  rapidly,  and  the  three, 
Nelly,  Tommy,  and  Father  Time,  were  soon  sin- 
cerely enjoying  each  other's  society,  when  a  woman 
in  a  grey  tweed  costume,  and  black  sailor  hat,  arrived 
at  the  top  of  a  little  hill  in  the  road  outside  the  gar- 
den, from  which  the  farm  and  its  surroundings  could 
be  seen. 

At  the  sight  of  the  group  in  front  of  the  farm, 
she  came  to  an  abrupt  pause,  and  hidden  from  them 
by  a  projecting  corner  of  wall  she  surveyed  the  scene 
— Nelly,  with  Tommy  on  her  knee,  and  the  old 
labourer  who  had  just  shouldered  his  scythe  again, 
and  was  about  to  go  on  his  way. 

It  was  Bridget  Cookson,  who  had  been  to  Kendal 
for  the  day,  and  had  walked  over  from  Grasmere, 
where  the  char-a-banc,  alias  the  '  Yellow  Peril,'  had 
deposited  her.  She  had  passed  the  Post  Office  on  her 
way,  and  had  brought  thence  a  letter  which  she  held 
in  her  hand.  Her  face  was  pale  and  excited.  She 
stood  thinking;  her  eyes  on  Nelly,  her  lips  moving 
as  though  she  were  rehearsing  some  speech  or  argu- 
ment. 

Then  when  she  had  watched  old  Backkhouse  make 
his  farewell,  and  turn  towards  the  gate,  she  hastily 


'MISSING'  245 

opened  a  black  silk  bag  hanging  from  her  wrist, 
and  thrust  the  letter  into  it. 

After  which  she  walked  on,  meeting  the  old  man 
in  the  lane,  and  run  into  by  Tommy,  who,  head  fore- 
most, was  rushing  home  to  shew  his  glorious  Haggan 
to  his  '  mummy.' 

Nelly's  face  at  sight  of  her  sister  stiffened  insen- 
sibly. 

'Aren't  you  very  tired,  Bridget?  Have  you 
walked  all  the  way?  Yes,  you  do  look  tired !  Have 
you  had  tea  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  at  Windermere.' 

Bridget  cleared  the  chair  on  which  Nelly  had 
placed  her  paint-box,  and  sat  down.  She  was  silent 
a  little  and  then  said  abruptly — 

'  It's  a  horrid  bore,  I  shall  have  to  go  to  London 
again.' 

1  Again  ?  '  Nelly's  look  of  surprise  was  natural. 
Bridget  had  returned  from  another  long  stay  in  the 
Bloomsbury  boarding-house  early  in  October,  and  it 
was  now  only  the  middle  of  the  month.  But  Bridget's 
doings  were  always  a  great  mystery  to  Nelly.  She 
was  translating  something  from  the  Spanish — that 
was  all  Nelly  knew — and  also,  that  when  an  offer 
had  been  made  to  her  through  a  friend,  of  some 
translating  work  for  the  Foreign  Office,  she  had 
angrily  refused  it.  She  would  not,  she  said,  be  a 
slave  to  any  public  office. 

'  Won't  it  be  awfully  expensive? '  said  Nelly  after 
a  pause,  as  Bridget  did  not  answer.  The  younger 


246  'MISSING' 

sister  was  putting  her  painting  things  away,  and 
making  ready  to  go  in.  For  though  the  day  had 
been  wonderfully  warm  for  October,  the  sun  had 
just  set  over  Bowfell,  and  the  air  had  grown  sud- 
denly chilly. 

'Well,  I  can't  help  it,'  said  Bridget,  rather 
roughly.  '  I  shall  have  to  go.' 

Something  in  her  voice  made  Nelly  look  at  her. 

'  I  say  you  are  tired !  Come  in  and  lie  down  a 
little.  That  walk  from  Grasmere's  too  much  for 
you! ' 

Bridget  submitted  with  most  unusual  docility. 

The  sisters  entered  the  house  together. 

'  I'll  go  upstairs  for  a  little,'  said  Bridget.  '  I 
shall  be  all  right  by  supper.'  Then,  as  she  slowly 
mounted  the  stairs,  a  rather  gaunt  and  dragged  figure 
in  her  dress  of  grey  alpaca,  she  turned  to  say — 

'  I  met  Sir  William  on  the  road  just  now.  He 
passed  me  in  the  car,  and  waved  his  hand.  He  called 
out  something — I  couldn't  hear  it.' 

'  Perhaps  to  say  he  would  come  to  supper,'  said 
Nelly,  her  face  brightening.  '  I'll  go  and  see  what 
there  is.' 

Bridget  went  upstairs.  Her  small  raftered  room 
was  invaded  by  the  last  stormy  light  of  the  autumn 
evening.  The  open  casement  window  admitted  a 
cold  wind.  Bridget  shut  it,  with  a  shiver.  But  in- 
stead of  lying  down,  she  took  a  chair  by  the  window, 
absently  removed  her  hat,  and  sat  there  thinking. 
The  coppery  light  from  the  west  illumined  her  face 


'MISSING'  247 

with  its  strong  discontented  lines,  and  her  hands, 
which  were  large,  but  white  and  shapely — a  source 
indeed  of  personal  pride  to  their  owner. 

Presently,  in  the  midst  of  her  reverie,  she  heard  a 
step  outside,  and  saw  Sir  William  Farrell  approach- 
ing the  gate.  Nelly,  wrapped  in  a  white  shawl,  was 
still  strolling  about  the  garden,  and  Bridget  watched 
their  meeting — Nelly's  soft  and  smiling  welcome,  and 
Farrell's  eagerness,  his  evident  joy  in  finding  her 
alone. 

'  And  she  just  wilfully  blinds  herself ! '  thought 
Bridget  contemptuously — *  talks  about  his  being  a 
brother  to  her,  and  that  sort  of  nonsense.  He's  in 
love  with  her ! — of  course  he's  in  love  with  her.  And 
as  for  Nelly — she's  not  in  love  with  him.  But  she's 
getting  used  to  him;  she  depends  on  him.  When 
he's  not  there  she  misses  him.  She's  awfully  glad  to 
see  him  when  he  comes.  Perhaps,  it'll  take  a  month 
or  two.  I  give  it  a  month  or  two — perhaps  six 
months — perhaps  a  year.  And  then  she'll  marry 
him — and ' 

Here  her  thoughts  became  rather  more  vague  and 
confused.  They  were  compounded  of  a  fierce  impa- 
tience with  the  war,  and  of  certain  urgent  wishes 
and  ambitions,  which  had  taken  possession  of  a 
strong  and  unscrupulous  character.  She  wanted  to 
travel.  She  wanted  to  see  the  world,  and  not  to  be 
bothered  by  having  to  think  of  money.  Contact  with 
very  rich  people,  like  the  Farrells,  and  the  constant 
spectacle  of  what  an  added  range  and  power  is  given 


248  'MISSING' 

to  the  human  will  by  money,  had  turned  the  dull 
discontent  of  her  youth  into  an  active  fever  of  desire. 
She  had  no  illusions  about  herself  at  all.  She  was 
already  a  plain  and  unattractive  old  maid.  Nobody 
would  want  to  marry  her;  and  she  did  not  want  to 
marry  anybody.  But  she  wanted  to  do  things  and  to 
see  things,  when  the  hateful  war  was  over.  She  was 
full  of  curiosities  about  life  and  the  world,  that  were 
rather  masculine  than  feminine.  Her  education, 
though  it  was  still  patchy  and  shallow,  had  been 
advancing  since  Nelly's  marriage,  and  her  intelli- 
gence was  hungry.  The  satisfaction  of  it  seemed 
too  to  promise  her  the  only  real  pleasures  to  which 
she  could  look  forward  in  life.  On  the  wall  of  her 
bedroom  were  hanging  photographs  of  Rome, 
Athens,  the  East.  She  dreamt  of  a  wandering  exist- 
ence ;  she  felt  that  she  would  be  insatiable  of  move- 
ment, of  experience,  if  the  chance  were  given  her. 

But  how  could  one  travel,  or  buy  books,  or  make 
new  acquaintances,  without  money? — something 
more  at  any  rate  than  the  pittance  on  which  she  and 
Nelly  subsisted. 

What  was  it  Sir  William  was  supposed  to  have, 
by  way  of  income? — thirty  thousand  a  year?  Well, 
he  wouldn't  always  be  spending  it  on  his  hospital, 
and  War  income  tax,  and  all  the  other  horrible 
burdens  of  the  time.  If  Nelly  married  him,  she 
would  have  an  ample  margin  to  play  with ;  and  to  do 
Nelly  justice,  she  was  always  open-handed,  always 
ready  to  give  away.  She  would  hand  over  her  own 


'MISSING'  249 

small  portion  to  her  sister,  and  add  something  to  it. 
With  six  or  seven  hundred  a  year,  Bridget  would  be 
mistress  of  her  own  fate,  and  of  the  future.  Often, 
lately,  in  waking  moments  of  the  night,  she  had  felt 
a  sudden  glow  of  exultation,  thinking  what  she  could 
do  with  such  a  sum.  The  world  seemed  to  open 
out  on  all  sides — offering  her  new  excitements,  new 
paths  to  tread  in.  She  wanted  no  companion,  to 
hamper  her  with  differing  tastes  and  wishes.  She 
would  be  quite  sufficient  to  herself. 

The  garden  outside  grew  dark.  She  heard  Far- 
rell  say  *  It's  too  cold  for  you — you  must  come  in,' 
and  she  watched  Nelly  enter  the  house  in  front  of 
him — turning  her  head  back  to  answer  something  he 
said  to  her.  Even  through  the  dusk  Bridget  was 
conscious  of  her  sister's  beauty.  She  did  not  envy 
it  in  the  least.  It  was  Nelly's  capital — Nelly's  oppor- 
tunity. Let  her  use  it  for  them  both.  Bridget  would 
be  well  satisfied  to  gather  up  the  crumbs  from  her 
rich  sister's  table. 

Then  from  the  dream,  she  came  back  with  chill 
and  desperation — to  reality.  The  letter  in  her  pocket 
— the  journey  before  her — she  pondered  alterna- 
tives. What  was  she  to  do  in  this  case — or  in  that? 
Everything  might  be  at  stake — everything  was  at 
stake — her  life  and  Nelly's — 

The  voices  from  the  parlour  below  came  up  to 
her.  She  heard  the  crackling  of  a  newly  lighted  fire 
— Farrell  reading  aloud — and  Nelly's  gentle  laugh- 
ter. She  pictured  the  scene;  the  two  on  either  side 


250  'MISSING' 

of  the  fire,  with  Nelly's  mourning,  her  plain  widow's 
dress,  as  the  symbol — in  Nelly's  eyes — of  what 
divided  her  from  Farrell,  or  any  other  suitor,  and 
made  it  possible  to  be  his  friend  without  fear. 
Bridget  knew  that  Nelly  so  regarded  it.  But  that  of 
course  was  just  Nelly's  foolish  way  of  looking  at 
things.  It  was  only  a  question  of  time. 

And  meanwhile  the  widow's  dress  had  quite  other 
meanings  for  Bridget.  She  pondered  long  in  the 
dark,  till  the  supper  bell  rang. 

At  supper,  her  silence  embarrassed  and  infected 
her  companions,  and  Farrell,  finding  it  impossible  to 
get  another  tete-a-tete  with  Nelly,  took  his  leave 
early.  He  must  be  up  almost  with  the  dawn  so  as 
to  get  to  Carton  by  nine  o'clock. 

Out  of  a  stormy  heaven  the  moon  was  breaking 
as  he  walked  back  to  his  cottage.  The  solitude  of 
the  mountain  ways,  the  freshness  of  the  rain-washed 
air,  and  the  sweetness  of  his  hour  with  Nelly,  after 
the  bustle  of  the  week,  the  arrivals  and  departures, 
the  endless  business,  of  a  great  hospital: — he  was 
conscious  of  them  all,  intensely  conscious,  as  parts 
of  a  single,  delightful  whole  to  which  he  had  looked 
forward  for  days.  And  yet  he  was  restless  and 
far  from  happy.  He  wandered  about  the  mountain 
roads  for  a  long  time — watching  the  moon  as  it  rose 
above  the  sharp  steep  of  Loughrigg  and  sent  long 
streamers  of  light  down  the  Elterwater  valley,  and 
up  the  great  knees  of  the  Pikes.  The  owls  hooted  in 


'MISSING'  251 

the  oak-woods,  and  the  sound  of  water — the  Brathay 
rushing  over  the  Skelwith  rocks,  and  all  the  little 
becks  in  fell  and  field,  near  and  far — murmured 
through  the  night  air,  and  made  earth-music  to  the 
fells.  Farrell  had  much  of  the  poet  in  him;  and  the 
mountains  and  their  life  were  dear  to  him.  But  he 
was  rapidly  passing  into  the  stage  when  a  man  over- 
mastered by  his  personal  desires  is  no  longer  open 
to  the  soothing  of  nature.  He  had  recently  had  a 
long  and  confidential  talk  with  his  lawyer  at  Carlisle, 
who  was  also  his  friend,  and  had  informed  himself 
minutely  about  the  state  of  the  law.  Seven  years ! — 
unless,  of  her  own  free  will,  she  took  the  infinitesimal 
risk  of  marriage  before  the  period  was  up. 

But  he  despaired  of  her  doing  any  such  thing. 
He  recognised  fully  that  the  intimacy  she  allowed 
him,  her  sweet  openness  and  confidingness,  were  all 
conditioned  by  what  she  regarded  as  the  fixed  points 
in  her  life;  by  her  widowhood,  legal  and  spiritual, 
and  by  her  tacit  reliance  on  his  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  set  apart,  bound  as  other  widows 
were  not  bound,  protected  by  the  very  mystery  of 
Sarratt's  fate,  from  any  thought  of  re-marriage. 

And  he! — all  the  time  the  strength  of  a  man's 
maturest  passion  was  mounting  in  his  veins.  And 
with  it  a  foreboding — coming  he  knew  not  whence — 
like  the  sudden  shadow  that,  as  he  looked,  blotted 
out  the  moonlight  on  the  shining  bends  and  loops 
of  the  Brathay,  where  it  wandered  through  the  Elter- 
water  fields. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BRIDGET  COOKSON  slowly  signed  her  name 
to  the  letter  she  had  been  writing  in  the 
drawing-room  of  the  boarding-house  where 
she  was  accustomed  to  stay  during  her  visits  to  town. 
Then  she  read  the  letter  through — 

4 1  can't  get  back  till  the  middle  or  end  of  next 
week  at  least.  There's  been  a  great  deal  to  do,  of 
one  kind  or  another.  And  I'm  going  down  to  Wok- 
ing  to-morrow  to  spend  the  week-end  with  a  girl  I 
met  here  who's  knocked  up  in  munition-work.  Don't 
expect  me  till  you  see  me.  But  I  daresay  I  shan't 
be  later  than  Friday.' 

Bridget  Cookson  had  never  yet  arrived  at  telling 
falsehoods  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  it.  On  the 
whole  she  preferred  not  to  tell  them.  But  she  was 
well  aware  that  her  letter  to  Nelly  contained  a  good 
many,  both  expressed  and  implied. 

Well,  that  couldn't  be  helped.  She  put  up  her 
letter,  and  then  proceeded  to  look  carefully  through 
the  contents  of  her  handbag.  Yes,  her  passport  was 
all  right,  and  her  purse  with  its  supply  of  notes. 
Also  the  letter  that  she  was  to  present  to  the  Base 
Commandant,  or  the  Red  Cross  representative  at 
the  port  of  landing.  The  latter  had  been  left  open 
for  her  to  read.  It  was  signed  *  Ernest  Howson, 
252 


'MISSING'  253 

M.D.,'  and  asked  that  Miss  Bridget  Cookson  might 
be  sent  forward  to  No.  102,  General  Hospital,  X 
Camp,  France,  as  quickly  as  possible. 

There  was  also  another  letter  addressed  to  herself 
in  the  same  handwriting.  She  opened  it  and  glanced 
through  it — 

'  DEAR  Miss  COOKSON, — I  think  I  have  made 
everything  as  easy  for  you  as  I  can  on  this  side. 
You  won't  have  any  difficulty.  I'm  awfully  glad 
you're  coming.  I  myself  am  much  puzzled,  and  don't 
know  what  to  think.  Anyway  I  am  quite  clear  that 
my  right  course  was  to  communicate  with  you — first. 
Everything  will  depend  on  what  you  say.' 

The  following  afternoon,  Bridget  found  herself, 
with  a  large  party  of  V.A.D.'s,  and  other  persons 
connected  with  the  Red  Cross,  on  board  a  Channel 
steamer.  The  day  was  grey  and  cold,  and  Bridget 
having  tied  on  her  life-belt,  and  wrapped  herself 
in  her  thickest  cloak,  found  a  seat  in  the  shelter  of 
the  deck  cabins  whence  the  choppy  sea,  the  destroyer 
hovering  round  them,  and  presently  the  coast  of 
France  were  visible.  A  secret  excitement  filled  her. 
What  was  she  going  to  see?  and  what  was  she  going 
to  do?  All  round  her  too  were  the  suggestions  of 
war,  commonplace  and  familiar  by  now  to  half  the 
nation,  but  not  to  Bridget  who  had  done  her  best 
to  forget  the  war.  The  steamer  deck  was  crowded 
with  officers  returning  from  leave  who  were  walking 
up  and  down,  all  of  them  in  life-belts,  chatting  and 
smoking.  All  eyes  were  watchful  of  the  sea,  and 


254  'MISSING* 

the  destroyer;  and  the  latest  submarine  gossip  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth.  The  V.A.D.'s  with  a  few 
army  nurses,  kept  each  other  company  on  the  stern 
deck.  The  mild  sea  gave  no  one  any  excuse  for 
discomfort,  and  the  pleasant-faced  rosy  girls  in  their 
becoming  uniforms,  laughed  and  gossiped  with  each 
other,  though  not  without  a  good  many  side  glances 
towards  the  khaki  figures  pacing  the  deck,  many 
of  them  specimens  of  English  youth  at  its  best. 

Bridget  however  took  little  notice  of  them.  She 
was  becoming  more  and  more  absorbed  in  her  own 
problem.  She  had  not  in  truth  made  up  her  mind 
how  to  deal  with  it,  and  she  admitted  reluctantly 
that  she  would  have  to  be  guided  by  circumstance. 
Midway  across,  when  the  French  coast  and  its  light- 
houses were  well  in  view,  she  took  out  the  same  letter 
which  she  had  received  two  days  before  at  the  Gras- 
mere  post-office,  and  again  read  it  through. 

"  X  Camp,  1 02,  General  Hospital. 

*  DEAR  Miss  COOKSON, — I  am  writing  to  you,  in 
the  first  instance  instead  of  to  Mrs.  Sarratt,  because 
I  have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  what  seemed  to  me 
your  sister's  frail  physical  state,  when  I  saw  you 
last  May  at  Rydal.     I  hope  she  is  much  stronger, 
but  I  don't  want  to  risk  what,  if  it  ended  in  disap- 
pointment, might  only  be  a  terrible  strain  upon  her 
to  no  purpose — so  I  am  preparing  the  way  by  writing 
to  you. 

*  The  fact  is  I  want  you  to  come  over  to  France — 


'MISSING'  255 

at  once.  Can  you  get  away,  without  alarming  your 
sister,  or  letting  her,  really,  know  anything  about 
it?  It  is  the  merest,  barest  chance,  but  I  think  there 
is  just  a  chance,  that  a  man  who  is  now  in  hospital 
here  may  be  poor  George  Sarratt — only  don't  build 
upon  it  yet,  please.  The  case  was  sent  on  here  from 
one  of  the  hospitals  near  the  Belgian  frontier  about 
a  month  ago,  in  order  that  a  famous  nerve-specialist, 
who  has  joined  us  here  for  a  time,  might  give  his 
opinion  on  it.  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  story.  I 
understand  from  the  surgeon  who  wrote  to  our  Com- 
mandant, that  one  night,  about  three  months  ago, 
two  men,  in  German  uniforms,  were  observed  from 
the  British  front-line  trench,  creeping  over  the  No 
Man's  Land  lying  between  the  lines  at  a  point  some- 
where east  of  Dixmude.  One  man,  who  threw  up 
his  hands,  was  dragging  the  other,  who  seemed 
wounded.  It  was  thought  that  they  were  deserters, 
and  a  couple  of  men  were  sent  out  to  bring  them  in. 
Just  as  they  were  being  helped  into  our  trench,  how- 
ever, one  of  them  was  hit  by  an  enemy  sniper  and 
mortally  wounded.  Then  it  was  discovered  that  they 
were  not  Germans  at  all.  The  man  who  had  been 
hit  said  a  few  incoherent  things  about  his  wife  and 
children  in  the  Walloon  patois  as  he  lay  in  the  trench, 
and  trying  to  point  to  his  companion,  uttered  the  one 
word  "  Anglais  " — that,  everyone  swears  to — and 
died.  No  papers  were  found  on  either  of  them,  and 
when  the  other  man  was  questioned,  he  merely  shook 
his  head,  with  a  vacant  look.  Various  tests  were  ap- 


256  'MISSING' 

plied  to  him,  but  it  was  soon  clear,  both  that  he  was 
dumb — and  deaf — from  nerve  shock,  probably — 
and  that  he  was  in  a  terrible  physical  state.  He  had 
been  severely  wounded — apparently  many  months 
before — in  the  shoulder  and  thigh.  The  wounds  had 
evidently  been  shockingly  neglected,  and  were  still 
septic.  The  surgeon  who  examined  him  thought  that 
what  with  exposure,  lack  of  food,  and  his  injuries, 
it  was  hardly  probable  he  would  live  more  than  a 
few  weeks.  However,  he  has  lingered  till  now,  and 
the  specialist  I  spoke  of  has  just  seen  him. 

'  As  to  identification  marks  there  were  none.  But 
you'll  hear  all  about  that  when  you  come.  All  I  can 
say  is  that,  as  soon  as  they  got  the  man  into  hospital, 
the  nurses  and  surgeons  became  convinced  that  he 
was  English,  and  that  in  addition  to  his  wounds,  it 
was  a  case  of  severe  shell-shock — acute  and  long- 
continued  neurasthenia  properly  speaking, — loss  of 
memory,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

*  Of  course  the  chances  of  this  poor  fellow  being 
George  Sarratt  are  infinitesimal — I  must  warn  you  as 
to  that.    How  account  for  the  interval  between  Sep- 
tember   1915   and  June    1916 — for  his   dress,   his 
companion — for  their  getting  through  the  German 
lines? 

*  However,  directly  I  set  eyes  on  this  man,  which 
was  the  week  after  I  arrived  here,  I  began  to  feel 
puzzled  about  him.    He  reminded  me  of  someone — 
but  of  whom  I  couldn't  remember.    Then  one  after- 
noon it  suddenly  flashed  upon  me — and  for  the  mo- 


'MISSING'  257 

ment  I  felt  almost  sure  that  I  was  looking  at  George 
Sarratt.  Then,  of  course,  I  began  to  doubt  again. 
I  have  tried — under  the  advice  of  the  specialist  I 
spoke  of — all  kinds  of  devices  for  getting  into  some 
kind  of  communication  with  him.  Sometimes  the 
veil  between  him  and  those  about  him  seems  to  thin 
a  little,  and  one  makes  attempts — hypnotism,  sug- 
gestion, and  so  forth.  But  so  far,  quite  in  vain.  He 
has,  however,  one  peculiarity  which  I  may  mention. 
His  hands  are  long  and  rather  powerful.  But  the 
little  fingers  are  both  crooked — markedly  so.  I  won- 
der if  you  ever  noticed  Sarratt's  hands?  However, 
I  won't  write  more  now.  You  will  understand,  I  am 
sure,  that  I  shouldn't  urge  you  to  come,  unless  I 
thought  it  seriously  worth  your  while.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  cannot  bear  to  excite  hopes  which  may — 
which  probably  will — come  to  nothing.  All  I  can 
feel  certain  of  is  that  it  is  my  duty  to  write,  and  I 
expect  that  you  will  feel  that  it  is  your  duty  to  come. 
'  I  send  you  the  address  of  a  man  at  the  War 
Office — high  up  in  the  R.A.M.C. — to  whom  I  have 
already  written.  He  will,  I  am  sure,  do  all  he  can 
to  help  you  get  out  quickly.  Whoever  he  is,  the  poor 
fellow  here  is  very  ill.' 

The  steamer  glided  up  the  dock  of  the  French 
harbour.  The  dusk  had  fallen,  but  Bridget  was  con- 
scious of  a  misty  town  dimly  sprinkled  with  lights, 
and  crowned  with  a  domed  church;  of  chalk  downs, 
white  and  ghostly,  to  right  and  left;  and  close  by, 


258  'MISSING' 

of  quays  crowded  with  soldiers,  motors,  and  offi- 
cials. Carrying  her  small  suit-case,  she  emerged 
upon  the  quay,  and  almost  immediately  was  accosted 
by  the  official  of  the  Red  Cross  who  had  been  told  off 
to  look  after  her. 

*  Let  me  carry  your  suit-case.  There  is  a  motor 

here,  which  will  take  you  to  X .  There  will  be 

two  nurses  going  with  you.' 

Up  the  long  hill  leading  southwards  out  of  the 
town,  sped  the  motor,  stopping  once  to  show  its  pass 
to  the  sentries — khaki  and  grey,  on  either  side  of 
the  road,  and  so  on  into  the  open  country,  where  an 
autumn  mist  lay  over  the  uplands,  beneath  a  faintly 
star-lit  sky.  Soon  it  was  quite  dark.  Bridget  listened 
vaguely  to  the  half-whispered  talk  of  the  nurses 
opposite,  who  were  young  probationers  going  back 
to  work  after  a  holiday,  full  of  spirits  and  merry 
gossip  about  *  Matron '  and  '  Sister,'  and  their  fa- 
vourite surgeons.  Bridget  was  quite  silent.  Every- 
thing was  strange  and  dreamlike.  Yet  she  was 
sharply  conscious  that  she  was  nearing — perhaps — 
some  great  experience,  some  act — some  decision — 
which  she  would  have  to  make  for  herself,  with  no 
one  to  advise  her.  Well,  she  had  never  been  a  great 
hand  at  asking  advice.  People  must  decide  things 
for  themselves. 

She  wondered  whether  they  would  let  her  see  *  the 
man  '  that  same  night.  Hardly — unless  he  were 
worse — in  danger.  Otherwise,  they  would  be  sure 
to  think  it  better  for  her  to  see  him  first  in  day- 


'MISSING'  259 

light.  She  too  would  be  glad  to  have  a  night's  rest 
before  the  interview.  She  had  a  curiously  bruised 
and  battered  feeling,  as  of  someone  who  had  been 
going  through  an  evil  experience. 

Pale  stretches  of  what  seemed  like  water  to  the 
right,  and  across  it  a  lighthouse.  And  now  to  the 
left,  a  sudden  spectacle  of  lines  of  light  in  a  great 
semicircle  radiating  up  the  side  of  a  hill. 

The  nurses  exclaimed — 

'  There's  the  Camp !    Isn't  it  pretty  at  night?  ' 

The  officer  sitting  in  front  beside  the  driver  turned 
to  ask — 

*  Where  shall  I  put  you  down?' 

*  Number  — '  said  both  the  maidens  in  concert. 
The  elderly  major  in  khaki — who  in  peace-time  was 
the  leading  doctor  of  a  Shropshire  country  town — 
could  not  help  smiling  at  the  two  lassies,  and  their 
bright  looks. 

'  You  don't  seem  particularly  sorry  to  come  back! ' 
he  said. 

'  Oh,  we're  tired  of  holidays,'  said  the  taller  of  the 
two,  with  a  laugh.  *  People  at  home  think  they're  so 
busy,  and ' 

'  You  think  they're  doing  nothing?  ' 

1  Well,  it  don't  seem  much,  when  you've  been 
out  here ! '  said  the  girl  more  gravely — '  and  when 
you  know  what  there  is  to  do !  ' 

*  Aye,  aye,'  said  the  man  in  front.     '  We  could 
do  with  hundreds  more  of  your  sort.     Hope  you 
preached  to  your  friends.' 


26o  'MISSING' 

4  We  did ! '  said  both,  each  with  the  same  young 
steady  voice. 

4  Here  we  are — Stop,  please.' 

For  the  motor  Had  turned  aside  to  climb  the  hill 
into  the  semicircle.  On  all  sides  now  were  rows  of 
low  buildings — hospital  huts — hospital  marquees — 
stores — canteens.  Close  to  the  motor,  as  it  came  to 
a  stand-still,  the  door  of  a  great  marquee  stood  open, 
and  Bridget  could  see  within,  a  lighted  hospital 
ward,  with  rows  of  beds,  men  in  scarlet  bed-jackets, 
sitting  or  lying  on  them — flowers — nurses  moving 
about.  The  scene  was  like  some  bright  and  delicate 
illumination  on  the  dark. 

*  I  shall  have  to  take  you  a  bit  further  on,'  said 
the  major  to  Bridget,  as  the  two  young  nurses  waved 
farewell.  *  We've  got  a  room  in  the  hotel  for  you. 
And  Dr.  Howson  will  come  for  you  in  the  morning. 
He  thought  that  would  be  more  satisfactory  both 
for  you  and  the  patient  than  that  you  should  go  to 
the  hospital  to-night.' 

Bridget  acquiesced,  with  a  strong  sense  of  relief. 
And  presently  the  camp  and  its  lights  were  all  left 
behind  again,  and  the  motor  was  rushing  on,  first 
through  a  dark  town,  and  then  through  woods — 
pine  woods — as  far  as  the  faint  remaining  light  en- 
abled her  to  see,  till  dim  shapes  of  houses,  and 
scattered  lamps  began  again  to  appear,  and  the 
motor  drew  up. 

1  Well,  you'll  find  a  bed  here,  and  some  food,' 
said  the  major  as  he  handed  her  out.  *  Can't  prom- 


'MISSING'  261 

ise  much.  It's  a  funny  little  place,  but  they  don't 
look  after  you  badly.' 

They  entered  one  of  the  small  seaside  hotels  of 
the  cheaper  sort  which  abound  in  French  watering- 
places,  where  the  walls  of  the  tiny  rooms  seem  to  be 
made  of  brown  paper,  and  everyone  is  living  in  their 
neighbour's  pocket.  But  a  pleasant  young  woman 
came  forward  to  take  Bridget's  bag. 

*  Mademoiselle  Cook — Cookson  ?  '  she  said  in- 
terrogatively. '  I  have  a  letter  for  Mademoiselle. 
Du  medecin,'  she  added,  addressing  the  major. 

'Ah?'  That  gentleman  put  down  Bridget's 
bag  in  the  little  hall,  and  stood  attentive.  Bridget 
opened  the  letter — a  very  few  words — and  read  it 
with  an  exclamation. 

'  DEAR  Miss  COOKSON, — I  am  awfully  sorry  not 
to  meet  you  to-night,  and  at  the  hospital  to-morrow. 
But  I  am  sent  for  to  Bailleul.  My  only  brother 
has  been  terribly  wounded — they  think  fatally — in  a 
bombing  attack  last  night.  I  am  going  up  at  once — 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  One  of  my  colleagues,  Dr. 
Vincent,  will  take  you  to  the  hospital  and  will  tell  me 
your  opinion.  In  haste. — Yours  sincerely, 

4  ERNEST  HOWSON.' 

1  H'm,  a  great  pity!'  said  the  major,  as  she 
handed  the  note  to  him.  '  Howson  has  taken  a  tre- 
mendous interest  in  the  case.  But  Vincent  is  next 
best.  Not  the  same  thing  perhaps — but  still — Of 


262  'MISSING' 

course  the  whole  medical  staff  here  has  been  inter- 
ested in  it.    It  has  some  extraordinary  features.    You 

I   thinlr   hflYf-   had    q    hrnthpr-i'n-lmpp    "  missing  "    for 

some  time  ? ' 

He  had  piloted  her  into  the  bare  salle  a  manger, 
where  two  young  officers,  with  a  party  of  newly- 
arrived  V.A.D.'s  were  having  dinner,  and  where 
through  an  open  window  came  in  the  dull  sound  of 
waves  breaking  on  a  sandy  shore. 

*  My  brother-in-law  has  been  missing  since  the  bat- 
tle of  Loos,'  said  Bridget — '  more  than  a  year.    We 
none  of  us  believe  that  he  can  be  alive.    But  of  course 
when  Dr.  Howson  wrote  to  me,  I  came  at  once.' 

'Has  he  a  wife?' 

4  Yes,  but  she  is  very  delicate.  That  is  why  Dr. 
Howson  wrote  to  me.  If  there  were  any  chance — of 
course  we  must  send  for  her.  But  I  shall  know — I 
shall  know  at  once.' 

*  I  suppose  you  will — yes,  I  suppose  you  will,' 
mused  the  major.    '  Though  of  course  a  man  is  ter- 
ribly aged  by  such  an  experience.     He's  English — 
that  we're  certain  of.    He  often  seems  to  understand 
— half  understand — a  written  phrase  or  word  in 
English.     And  he  is  certainly  a  man  of  refinement. 
All  his  personal  ways — all  that  is  instinctive  and 
automatic — the  subliminal  consciousness,  so  to  speak 
— seems  to  be  that  of  a  gentleman.    But  it  is  impos- 
sible to  get  any  response  out  of  him,  for  anything 
connected  with  the  war.    And  yet  we  doubt  whether 
there  is  any  actual  brain  lesion.    So  far  it  seems  to 


'MISSING'  263 

be  severe  functional  disturbance — which  is  neuras- 
thenia— aggravated  by  his  wounds  and  general  state. 
But  the  condition  is  getting  worse  steadily.  It  is 
very  sad,  and  very  touching.  However,  you  will  get 
it  all  out  of  Vincent.  You  must  have  some  dinner 
first.  I  wish  you  a  good-night.' 

And  the  good  man,  so  stout  and  broad-shouldered 
that  he  seemed  to  be  bursting  out  of  his  khaki,  hur- 
ried away.  The  lady  seemed  to  him  curiously  hard 
and  silent — '  a  forbidding  sort  of  party.'  But  then 
he  himself  was  a  person  of  sentiment,  expressing  all 
the  expected  feelings  in  the  right  places,  and  with 
perfect  sincerity. 

Bridget  took  her  modest  dinner,  and  then  sat  by 
the  window,  looking  out  over  a  lonely  expanse  of 
sand,  towards  a  moonlit  sea.  To  right  and  left  were 
patches  of  pine  wood,  and  odd  little  seaside  villas, 
with  fantastic  turrets  and  balconies.  A  few  figures 
passed — nurses  in  white  head  dresses,  and  men  in 
khaki.  Bridget  understood  after  talking  to  the  little 
patronne,  that  the  name  of  the  place  was  Paris  a  la 
Mer,  that  there  was  a  famous  golf  course  near,  and 
that  large  building,  with  a  painted  front  to  the  right, 
was  once  the  Casino,  and  now  a  hospital  for  officers. 

It  was  all  like  a  stage  scene,  the  sea,  the  queer 
little  houses,  the  moonlight,  the  passing  figures. 
Only  the  lights  were  so  few  and  dim,  and  there  was 
no  music. 

'  Miss  Cookson?' 

Bridget  turned,  to  see  a  tall  young  surgeon  in 


264  'MISSING' 

khaki,  tired,  pale  and  dusty,  who  looked  at  her  with 
a  frown  of  worry,  a  man  evidently  over-driven,  and 
with  hardly  any  mind  to  give  to  this  extra  task  that 
had  been  put  upon  him. 

'  I'm  sorry  to  be  late — but  we've  had  an  awful  rush 
to-day,'  he  said,  as  he  perfunctorily  shook  hands. 
*  There  was  some  big  fighting  on  the  Somme,  the 
night  before  last,  and  the  casualty  trains  have  been 
coming  in  all  day.  I'm  only  able  to  get  away  for  five 
minutes. 

*  Well  now,  Miss  Cookson  ' — he  sat  down  oppo- 
site her,  and  tried  to  get  his  thoughts  into  business 
shape — '  first  let  me  tell  you  it's  a  great  misfortune 
for  you  that  Howson's  had  to  go  off.    I  know  some- 
thing about  the  case — but  not  nearly  as  much  as  he 
knows.    First  of  all — how  old  was  your  brother-in- 
law?' 

'  About  twenty-seven — I  don't  know  precisely.' 

*  H'm.    Well  of  course  this  man  looks  much  older 
than    that — but    the    question    is    what's    he    been 
through?    Was  Lieutenant  Sarratt  fair  or  dark?  ' 

4  Rather  dark.    He  had  brown  hair.' 
'Eyes?' 

*  I  can't  remember  precisely,'  said  Bridget,  after  a 
moment.    *  I  don't  notice  the  colour  of  people's  eyes. 
But  I'm  sure  they  were  some  kind  of  brown.' 

'  This  man's  are  a  greenish  grey.  Can  you  recol- 
lect anything  peculiar  about  Lieutenant  Sarratt's 
hands?' 

Again  Bridget  paused  for  a  second  or  two,  and 


'MISSING'  265 

then  said — '  I  can't  remember  anything  at  all  pecul- 
iar about  them.' 

The  surgeon  looked  at  her  closely,  and  was  struck 
with  the  wooden  irresponsiveness  of  the  face,  which 
was  however  rather  handsome,  he  thought,  than 
otherwise.  No  doubt,  she  was  anxious  to  speak  de- 
liberately, when  so  much  might  depend  on  her  evi- 
dence and  her  opinion.  But  he  had  never  seen  any 
countenance  more  difficult  to  read. 

*  Perhaps  you're  not  a  close   observer  of  such 
things  ? ' 

*  No,  I  don't  think  I  am.' 

'  H'm — that's  rather  a  pity.  A  great  deal  may 
turn  on  them,  in  this  case.' 

Then  the  face  before  him  woke  up  a  little. 

*  But  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  know  my  brother- 
in-law  again,  under  any  circumstances,'  said  Bridget, 
with  emphasis. 

'Ah,  don't  be  so  sure!  Privation  and  illness 
change  people  terribly.  And  this  poor  fellow  has 
suffered!' — he  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively. 
'Well,  you  will  see  him  to-morrow.  There  is  of 
course  no  external  evidence  to  help  us  whatever. 
The  unlucky  accident  that  the  Englishman's  com- 
panion— who  was  clearly  a  Belgian  peasant,  disguised 
— of  that  there  is  no  doubt — was  shot  through  the 
lungs  at  the  very  moment  that  the  two  men  reached 
the  British  line,  has  wiped  out  all  possible  means  of 
identification — unless,  of  course,  the  man  himself  can 
be  recognised  by  someone  who  knew  him.  We  have 


266  'MISSING' 

had  at  least  a  dozen  parties — relations  of  "  missing  " 
men — much  more  recent  cases — over  here  already — 
to  no  purpose.  There  is  really  no  clue,  unless  ' — 
the  speaker  rose  with  a  tired  smile — *  unless  you  can 
supply  one,  when  you  see  him.  But  I  am  sorry  about 
the  fingers.  That  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  pos- 
sible clue.  To-morrow  then,  at  eleven?' 

Bridget  interrupted. 

*  It  is  surely  most  unlikely  that  my  brother-in-law 
could  have  survived  all  this  time?  If  he  had  been 
a  prisoner,  we  should  have  heard  of  him,  long  ago. 
Where  could  he  have  been? ' 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'There  have  been  a  few  cases,  you  know — of 
escaped  prisoners — evading  capture  for  a  long  time 
— and  finally  crossing  the  line.  But  of  course  it  is 
very  unlikely — most  unlikely.  Well,  to-morrow?' 
He  bowed  and  departed. 

Bridget  made  her  way  to  her  small  carpetless 
room,  and  sat  for  long  with  a  shawl  round  her  at 
the  open  window.  She  could  imagine  the  farm  in 
this  moonlight.  It  was  Saturday.  Very  likely  both 
Cicely  and  Sir  William  were  at  the  cottage.  She 
seemed  to  see  Nelly,  with  the  white  shawl  over  her 
dark  head,  saying  good-night  to  them  at  the  farm- 
gate.  That  meant  that  it  was  all  going  forward. 
Some  day, — and  soon, — Nelly  would  discover  that 
Farrell  was  necessary  to  her — that  she  couldn't  do 
without  him — just  as  she  had  never  been  able  in 
practical  ways  to  do  without  her  sister. 


'MISSING'  267 

No,  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  of  Nelly's  great 
future,  and  the  free  development  of  her — Bridget's 
— own  life,  but  this  sudden  and  most  unwelcome 
stroke  of  fate.  If  she  had  to  send  for  Nelly — sup- 
posing it  really  were  Sarratt — and  then  if  he  died — 
Nelly  might  never  get  over  it. 

It  might  simply  kill  her — why  not?  All  the 
world  knew  that  she  was  a  weakling.  And  if  it 
didn't  kill  her,  it  would  make  it  infinitely  less  likely 
that  she  would  marry  Farrell — in  any  reasonable 
time.  Nelly  was  not  like  other  people.  She  was  all 
feelings.  Actually  to  see  George  die — and  in  the 
state  that  these  doctors  described — would  rack  and 
torture  her.  She  would  never  be  the  same  again. 
The  first  shock  was  bad  enough;  this  might  be  far 
worse.  Bridget's  selfishness,  in  truth,  counted  on 
the  same  fact  as  Farrell's  tenderness.  '  After  all, 
what  people  don't  see,  they  can't  feel ' — to  quite  the 
same  degree.  But  if  Nelly,  being  Nelly,  had  seen  the 
piteous  thing,  she  would  turn  against  Farrell,  and 
think  it  loyalty  to  George  to  send  her  rich  suitor 
about  his  business.  Bridget  felt  that  she  could  ex- 
actly foretell  the  course  of  things.  A  squalid  and 
melancholy  veil  dropped  over  the  future.  Poverty, 
struggle,  ill-health  for  Nelly — poverty,  and  the  starv- 
ing of  all  natural  desires  and  ambitions  for  herself — 
that  was  all  there  was  to  look  forward  to,  if  the  Far- 
rells  were  alienated,  and  the  marriage  thwarted. 

A  fierce  revolt  shook  the  woman  by  the  window. 
She  sat  on  there  till  the  moon  dropped  into  the  sea, 


268  'MISSING' 

and  everything  was  still  in  the  little  echoing  hotel. 
And  then  though  she  went  to  bed  she  could  not 
sleep. 

After  her  coffee  and  roll  in  the  little  salle  a 
manger,  which  with  its  bare  boards  and  little  rags  of 
curtains  was  only  meant  for  summer  guests,  and  was 
now,  on  this  first  of  November,  nippingly  cold, 
Bridget  wandered  a  little  on  the  shore  watching  the 
white  dust  of  the  foam  as  a  chill  west  wind  skimmed 
it  from  the  incoming  waves,  then  packed  her  bag, 
and  waited  restlessly  for  Dr.  Vincent.  She  under- 
stood she  was  to  be  allowed,  if  she  wished,  two  visits 
in  the  hospital,  so  as  to  give  her  an  opportunity  of 
watching  the  patient  she  was  going  to  see,  without 
undue  hurry,  and  would  then  be  motored  back  to 

D in  time  for  the  night  boat.  She  was  bracing 

herself  therefore  to  an  experience  the  details  of  which 
she  only  dimly  foresaw,  but  which  must  in  any  case 
be  excessively  disagreeable.  What  exactly  she  was 
going  to  do  or  say,  she  didn't  know.  How  could 
she,  till  the  new  fact  was  before  her? 

Punctually  on  the  stroke  of  eleven,  a  motor  ar- 
rived in  charge  of  an  army  driver,  and  Bridget  set 
out.  They  were  to  pick  up  Vincent  in  the  town  of 

X itself  and  run  on  to  the  Camp.  The  sun  was 

out  by  this  time,  and  all  the  seaside  village,  with  its 
gimcrack  hotels  and  villas  flung  pell-mell  upon  the 
sand,  and  among  the  pines,  was  sparkling  under  it. 
So  were  the  withered  woods,  where  the  dead  leaves 


'MISSING'  269 

were  flying  before  the  wind,  the  old  town  where  Na- 
poleon gathered  his  legions  for  the  attack  on  Eng- 
land, and  the  wide  sandy  slopes  beyond  it,  where  the 
pine  woods  had  perished  to  make  room  for  the 
Camp.  The  car  stopped  presently  on  the  edge  of 
the  town.  To  the  left  spread  a  river  estuary,  with  a 
spit  of  land  beyond,  and  lighthouses  upon  it,  sharp 
against  a  pale  blue  sky.  Every  shade  of  pale  yellow, 
of  lilac  and  pearl,  sparkled  in  the  distance,  in  the 
scudding  water,  the  fast  flying  westerly  clouds,  and 
the  sandy  inlets  among  the  still  surviving  pines. 

'  You're  punctuality  itself,'  said  a  man  emerging 
from  a  building  before  which  a  sentry  was  pacing — 
*  Now  we  shall  be  there  directly.' 

The  building,  so  Bridget  was  informed,  housed 
the  Headquarters  of  the  Base,  and  from  it  the  busi- 
ness of  the  great  Camp,  whether  on  its  military  or 
its  hospital  side,  was  mainly  carried  on.  And  as 
they  drove  towards  the  Camp  her  companion,  with  < 
the  natural  pride  of  the  Englishman  in  his  job,  told 
the  marvellous  tale  of  the  two  preceding  years — how 
the  vast  hospital  city  had  been  reared,  and  organised 
— the  military  camp  too — the  convalescent  camp — • 
the  transports — and  the  feeding. 

*  The  Boche  thought  they  were  the  only  organ- 
isers in  the  world! — We've  taught  them  better! '  he 
said,  with  a  laugh  in  his  pleasant  eyes,  the  whole  man 
of  him,  so  weary  the  night  before,  now  fresh  and 
alert  in  the  morning  sunshine. 

Bridget    listened    with    an    unwilling    attention. 


270  'MISSING' 

This  bit  of  the  war  seen  close  at  hand  was  beginning 
to  suggest  to  her  some  new  vast  world,  of  which  she 
was  wholly  ignorant,  where  she  was  the  merest- 
cypher  on  sufferance.  The  thought  was  disagreeable 
to  her  irritable  pride,  and  she  thrust  it  aside.  She 
had  other  things  to  consider. 

They  drew  up  outside  one  of  the  general  hospitals 
lined  along  the  Camp  road. 

*  You'll  find  him  in  a  special  ward,'  said  Vincent, 
as  he  handed  her  out.  '  But  I'll  take  you  first  to 
Sister.' 

They  entered  the  first  hut,  and  made  their  way 
past  various  small  rooms,  amid  busy  people  going 
to  and  fro.  Bridget  was  aware  of  the  usual  hos- 
pital smell  of  mingled  anaesthetic  and  antiseptic,  and 
presently,  her  companion  laid  a  hasty  hand  on  her 
arm  and  drew  her  to  one  side.  A  surgeon  passed 
with  a  nurse.  They  entered  a  room  on  the  right, 
and  left  the  door  of  it  a  little  ajar. 

'  The  operating  theatre,'  said  Vincent,  with  a 
gesture  that  shewed  her  where  to  look;  and  through 
the  open  door  Bridget  saw  a  white  room  beyond,  an 
operating  table  and  a  man,  a  splendid  boy  of  nine- 
teen or  twenty  lying  on  it,  with  doctors  and  nurses 
standing  round.  The  youth's  features  shewed  waxen 
against  the  white  walls,  and  white  overalls  of  the 
nurses. 

1  This  way,'  said  Vincent.  '  Sister,  this  is  Miss 
Cookson.  You  remember — Dr.  Howson  sent  for 
her.' 


'MISSING'  271 

A  shrewd-faced  woman  of  forty  in  nurse's  dress 
looked  closely  at  Bridget. 

'  We  shall  be  very  glad  indeed,  Miss  Cookson,  if 
you  can  throw  any  light  on  this  case.  It  is  one  of 
the  saddest  we  have  here.  Will  you  follow  me, 
please?' 

Bridget  found  herself  passing  through  the  main 
ward  of  the  hut,  rows  of  beds  on  either  hand.  She 
seemed  to  be  morbidly  conscious  of  scores  of  eyes 
upon  her,  and  was  glad  when  she  found  herself  in 
the  passage  beyond  the  ward. 

The  Sister  opened  a  door  into  a  tiny  sitting-room, 
and  offered  Bridget  a  chair. 

'  They  have  warned  you  that  this  poor  fellow  is 
deaf  and  dumb? ' 

'  Yes — I  had  heard  that' 

*  And  his  brain  is  very  clouded.  He  tries  to  do 
all  we  tell  him — it  is  touching  to  see  him.  But  his  real 
intelligence  seems  to  be  far  away.  Then  there  are 
the  wounds.  Did  Dr.  Howson  tell  you  about  them?  ' 

'  He  said  there  were  bad  wounds.' 

The  Sister  threw  up  her  hands. 

1  How  he  ever  managed  to  do  the  walking  he 
must  have  done  to  get  through  the  lines  is  a  mystery 
to  us  all.  What  he  must  have  endured !  The  wounds 
must  have  been  dressed  to  begin  with  in  a  German 
field-hospital.  Then  on  his  way  to  Germany,  before 
the  wounds  had  properly  healed — that  at  least  is  our 
theory — somewhere  near  the  Belgian  frontier  he 
must  have  made  his  escape.  What  happened  then,  of 


272  'MISSING' 

course,  during  the  winter  and  spring  nobody  knows; 
but  when  he  reached  our  lines,  the  wounds  were  both 
in  a  septic  state.  There  have  been  two  operations 
for  gangrene  since  he  has  been  here.  I  don't  think 
he'll  stand  another.' 

Bridget  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  intently  at  the 
speaker — 

'  You  think  he's  very  ill?  ' 

4  Very  ill,'  said  the  Sister  emphatically.  *  If  you 
can  identify  him,  you  must  send  for  his  wife  at  once 
— at  once!  Lieutenant  Sarratt  was,  I  think,  mar- 
ried?' 

'  Yes,'  said  Bridget.    *  Now  may  I  see  him?  ' 

The  Sister  looked  at  her  visitor  curiously.  She 
was  both  puzzled  and  repelled  by  Bridget's  manner, 
by  its  lack  of  spring  and  cordiality,  its  dull  sugges- 
tion of  something  reserved  and  held  back.  But  per- 
haps the  woman  was  only  shy;  and  oppressed  by  the 
responsibility  of  what  she  had  come  to  do.  The 
Sister  was  a  very  human  person,  and  took  tolerant 
views  of  everything  that  was  not  German.  She  rose, 
saying  gently — 

*  If  I  may  advise  you,  take  time  to  watch  him, 
before  you  form  or  express  any  opinion.  We  won't 
hurry  you.' 

Bridget  followed  her  guide  a  few  steps  along  the 
corridor.  The  Sister  opened  a  door,  and  stood  aside 
to  let  Bridget  pass  in.  Then  she  came  in  herself,  and 
beckoned  to  a  young  probationer  who  was  rolling 
bandages  on  the  further  side  of  the  only  bed  the 


'MISSING'  273 

room  contained.    The  girl  quietly  put  down  her  work 
and  went  out. 

There  was  a  man  lying  in  the  bed,  and  Bridget 
looked  at  him.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast,  that  she  felt 
for  a  moment  sick  and  suffocated.  The  Sister  bent 
over  him  tenderly,  and  put  back  the  hair,  the  grey 
hair  which  had  fallen  over  his  forehead.  At  the 
touch,  his  eyes  opened,  and  as  he  saw  the  Sister's 
face  he  very  faintly  smiled.  Bridget  suddenly  put 
out  a  hand  and  steadied  herself  by  a  chair  standing 
beside  the  bed.  The  Sister  however  saw  nothing 
but  the  face  on  the  pillow,  and  the  smile.  The  smile 
was  so  rare! — it  was  the  one  sufficient  reward  for 
all  his  nurses  did  for  him. 

4  Now  I'll  leave  you,'  said  the  Sister,  forbearing 
to  ask  any  further  questions.  *  Won't  you  sit  down 
there?  If  you  want  anyone,  you  have  only  to  touch 
that  bell.' 

She  disappeared.  And  Bridget  sat  down,  her  eyes 
on  the  figure  in  the  bed,  and  on  the  hand  outside 
the  sheet.  Her  own  hands  were  trembling,  as  they 
lay  crossed  upon  her  lap. 

How  grey  and  thin  the  hair  was — how  ghostly 
the  face — what  suffering  in  every  line ! 

Bridget  drew  closer. 

*  George ! '  she  whispered. 

No  answer.  The  man's  eyes  were  closed  again. 
He  seemed  to  be  asleep.  Bridget  looked  at  his  hand 
— intently.  Then  she  touched  it. 

The    heavy   blue-veined   eyelids   rose    again,    as 


274  'MISSING' 

though  at  the  only  summons  the  brain  understood. 
Bridget  bent  forward.  What  colour  there  had  been 
in  it  before  ebbed  from  her  sallow  face;  her  lips 
grew  white.  The  eyes  of  the  man  in  the  bed  met 
hers — first  mechanically — without  any  sign  of  con- 
sciousness; then — was  it  imagination? — or  was  there 
a  sudden  change  of  expression — a  quick  trouble — a 
flickering  of  the  lids  ?  Bridget  shook  through  every 
limb.  If  he  recognised  her,  if  the  sight  of  her 
brought  memory  back — even  a  gleam  of  it — there 
was  an  end  of  everything,  of  course.  She  had  only  to 
go  to  the  nearest  telegraph  office  and  send  for  Nelly. 

But  the  momentary  stimulus  passed  as  she  looked 
— the  eyes  grew  vacant  again — the  lids  fell.  Bridget 
drew  a  long  breath.  She  raised  herself  and  moved 
her  chair  farther  away. 

Time  passed.  The  window  behind  her  was  open, 
and  the  sun  came  in,  and  stole  over  the  bed.  The 
sick  man  scarcely  moved  at  all.  There  was  com- 
plete silence,  except  for  the  tread  of  persons  in  the 
corridor  outside,  and  certain  distant  sounds  of  mus- 
ketry and  bomb  practice  from  the  military  camp  half 
a  mile  away. 

He  was  dying — the  man  in  the  bed.  That  was 
plain.  Bridget  knew  the  look  of  mortal  illness.  It 
couldn't  be  long. 

She  sat  there  nearly  an  hour — thinking.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  she  rang  the  hand-bell  near  her. 

Sister  Agnes  appeared  at  once.  Bridget  had  risen 
and  confronted  her. 


'MISSING'  275 

1  Well,'  said  the  Sister  eagerly.  But  the  visitor's 
irresponsive  look  quenched  her  hopes  at  once. 

4 1  see  nothing  at  all  that  reminds  me  of  my 
brother-in-law,'  said  Bridget  with  emphasis.  *  I  am 
very  sorry — but  I  cannot  identify  this  person  as 
George  Sarratt.' 

The  Sister's  face  fell. 

*  You  don't  even  see  the  general  likeness  Dr.  How- 
son  thought  he  saw?' 

Bridget  turned  back  with  her  towards  the  bed. 

4 1  see  what  Dr.  Howson  meant,'  she  said,  slowly. 
4  But  there  is  no  real  likeness.  My  brother-in-law's 
face  was  much  longer.  His  mouth  was  quite  differ- 
ent. And  his  eyes  were  brown.' 

*  Did  you  see  the  eyes  again?     Did  he  look  at 
you? ' 

4  Yes.' 

*  And  there  was  no  sign  of  recognition  ?  ' 
4  No.' 

4  Poor  dear  fellow !  '  said  the  Sister,  stooping  over 
him  again.  There  was  a  profound  and  yearning  pity 
in  the  gesture.  4 1  wish  we  could  have  kept  him  more 
alive — more  awake — for  you,  to  see.  But  there  had 
to  be  morphia  this  morning.  He  had  a  dreadful 
night.  Are  you  quite  sure?  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
come  back  this  afternoon,  and  watch  him  again? 
Sometimes  a  second  time — Oh,  and  what  of  the 
hands  ? — did  you  notice  them  ?  '  And  suddenly  re- 
membering Dr.  Howson's  words,  the  Sister  pointed 


276  'MISSING' 

to  the  long,  bloodless  fingers  lying  on  the  sheet,  and 
to  the  marked  deformity  in  each  little  finger. 

'  Yet — but  George's  hands  were  not  .peculiar  in 
any  way.'  Bridget's  voice,  as  she  spoke,  seemed  to 
herself  to  come  from  far  away;  as  though  it  were 
that  of  another  person  speaking  under  compulsion. 

*  I'm   sorry — I'm   sorry!' — the   Sister   repeated. 
*  It's  so  sad  for  him  to  be  dying  here — all  alone — 
nobody  knowing  even  who  he  is — when  one  thinks 
how  somebody  must  be  grieving  and  longing  for 
him.' 

'Have  you  no  other  enquiries?'  said  Bridget, 
abruptly,  turning  to  pick  up  some  gloves  she  had  laid 
down. 

4  Oh  yes — we  have  had  other  visitors — and  I  be- 
lieve there  is  a  gentleman  coming  to-morrow.  But 
nothing  that  sounded  so  promising  as  your  visit.  You 
won't  come  again? ' 

*  It  would  be  no  use,'  said  the  even,  determined 
voice.    '  I  will  write  to  Dr.  Howson  from  London. 
And  I  do  hope  ' — for  the  first  time,  the  kindly  nurse 
perceived  some  agitation  in  this  impressive  stranger 
— '  I  do  hope  that  nobody  will  write  to  my  sister — to 
Mrs.  Sarratt.    She  is  very  delicate.    Excitement  and 
disappointment  might  just  kill  her.     That's  why  I 
came.' 

'  And  that  of  course  is  why  Dr.  Howson  wrote 
to  you  first.  Oh  I  am  sure  he  will  take  every  care. 
He'll  be  very,  very  sorry!  You'll  write  to  him? 
And  of  course  so  shall  I.' 


'MISSING'  277 

The  news  that  the  lady  from  England  had  failed 
to  identify  the  nameless  patient  to  whom  doctor  and 
nurses  had  been  for  weeks  giving  their  most  devoted 
care  spread  rapidly,  and  Bridget  before  she  left  the 
hospital  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  good  many 
enquiries,  at  the  hands  of  the  various  hospital  chiefs. 
She  produced  on  all  those  who  questioned  her  the 
impression  of  an  unattractive,  hard,  intelligent 
woman  whose  judgment  could  probably  be  trusted. 

*  Glad  she  isn't  my  sister-in-law ! '  thought  Vincent 
as  he  turned  back  from  handing  her  into  the  motor 
which  was  to  take  her  to  the  port.  But  he  did  not 
doubt  her  verdict,  and  was  only  sorry  for  '  old  How- 
son,'  who  had  been  so  sure  that  something  would 
come  of  her  visit. 

The  motor  took  Bridget  rapidly  back  to  D , 

where  she  would  be  in  good  time  for  an  afternoon 
boat.  She  got  some  food,  automatically,  at  a  hotel 
near  the  quay,  and  automatically  made  her  way  to 
the  boat  when  the  time  came.  A  dull  sense  of 
something  irrevocable, — something  horrible, — over- 
shadowed her.  But  the  *  will  to  conquer '  in  her 
was  as  iron;  and,  as  in  the  Prussian  conscience,  left 
no  room  for  pity  or  remorse. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  PSYCHOLOGIST  would  have  found  much  to 
interest  him  in  Bridget  Cookson's  mental 
state  during  the  days  which  followed  on  her 
journey  to  France.  The  immediate  result  of  that 
journey  was  an  acute  sharpening  of  intelligence, 
accompanied  by  a  steady,  automatic  repression  of  all 
those  elements  of  character  or  mind  which  might 
have  interfered  with  its  free  working.  Bridget 
understood  perfectly  that  she  had  committed  a  crime, 
and  at  first  she  had  not  been  able  to  protect  herself 
against  the  normal  reaction  of  horror  or  fear.  But 
the  reaction  passed  very  quickly.  Conscience  gave 
up  the  ghost.  Selfish  will,  and  keen  wits  held  the 
field;  and  Bridget  ceased  to  be  more  than  occasion- 
ally uncomfortable,  though  a  certain  amount  of 
anxiety  was  of  course  inevitable. 

She  did  not  certainly  want  to  be  found  out,  either 
by  Nelly  or  the  Farrells ;  and  she  took  elaborate  steps 
to  prevent  it.  She  wrote  first  a  long  letter  to  How- 
son  giving  her  reasons  for  refusing  to  believe  in 

his  tentative  identification  of  the  man  at  X as 

George  Sarratt,  and  begging  him  not  to  write  to 
her  sister.  '  That  would  be  indeed  cruel.  She  can 
just  get  along  now,  and  every  month  she  gets  a 
little  stronger.  But  her  heart,  which  was  weakened 
278 


'MISSING'  279 

by  the  influenza  last  year,  would  never  stand  the 
shock  of  a  fearful  disappointment.  Please  let  her  be. 
I  take  all  the  responsibility.  That  man  is  not  George 
Sarratt.  I  hope  you  may  soon  discover  who  he  is.' 

Step  No.  2  was  to  go,  on  the  very  morning  after 
she  arrived  in  London,  to  the  Enquiry  Office  in 

A Street.  Particulars  of  the  case  in  France  had 

that  morning  reached  the  office,  and  Bridget  was  but 
just  in  time  to  stop  a  letter  from  Miss  Eustace  to 
Nelly.  When  she  pointed  out  that  she  had  been  over 
to  France  on  purpose  to  see  for  herself,  that  there 
was  no  doubt  at  all  in  her  own  mind,  and  that  it 
would  only  torment  a  frail  invalid  to  no  purpose  to 
open  up  the  question,  the  letter  was  of  course 
countermanded.  Who  could  possibly  dispute  a  sis- 
ter's advice  in  such  a  case  ?  And  who  could  attribute 
the  advice  to  anything  else  than  sisterly  affection ! 

Meanwhile  among  the  mountains  an  unusually 
early  winter  was  beginning  to  set  in.  The  weather 
grew  bitterly  cold,  and  already  a  powdering  of  snow 
was  on  the  fell-tops.  For  all  that,  Nelly  could  never 
drink  deep  enough  of  the  November  beauty,  as  it 
shone  upon  the  fells  through  some  bright  frosty  days. 
The  oaks  were  still  laden  with  leaf;  the  fern  was  still 
scarlet  on  the  slopes;  and  the  ghylls  and  waterfalls 
leapt  foaming  white  down  their  ancestral  courses. 
And  in  this  austerer  world,  Nelly's  delicate  per- 
sonality, as  though  braced  by  the  touch  of  winter, 
seemed  to  move  more  lightly  and  buoyantly.  She 
was  more  vividly  interested  in  things  and  persons — 


280  'MISSING' 

in  her  drawing,  her  books,  her  endless  knitting  and 
sewing  for  the  wounded.  She  was  puzzled  that 
Bridget  stayed  so  long  in  town,  but  alack !  she  could 
do  very  well  without  Bridget.  Some  portion  of  the 
savour  of  life,  of  that  infinity  of  small  pleasures 
which  each  day  may  bring  for  the  simple  and  the 
pure  in  heart,  was  again  hers.  Insensibly  the  great 
wound  was  healing.  The  dragging  anguish  of  the 
first  year  assailed  her  now  but  rarely. 

One  morning  she  opened  the  windows  in  the  little 
sitting-room,  to  let  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  great 
spectacle  of  the  Pikes  wrapped  in  majestic  shadow, 
purple-black,  with  the  higher  peaks  ranged  in  a  hier- 
archy of  light  behind  them. 

She  leant  far  out  of  the  window,  breathing  in  the 
tonic  smell  of  the  oak  leaves  on  the  grass  beneath 
her,  and  the  freshness  of  the  mountain  air.  Then,  as 
she  turned  back  to  the  white-walled  raftered  room 
with  its  bright  fire,  she  was  seized  with  the  pleasant- 
ness of  this  place  which  was  now  her  home.  Insen- 
sibly it  had  captured  her  heart,  and  her  senses.  And 
who  was  it — what  contriving  brain — had  designed 
and  built  it  up,  out  of  the  rough  and  primitive  dwell- 
ing it  had  once  been? 

Of  course,  William  Farrell  had  done  it  all !  There 
was  scarcely  a  piece  of  furniture,  a  picture,  a  book, 
that  was  not  of  his  choosing  and  placing.  Little  by 
little,  they  had  been  gathered  round  her.  His  hand 
had  touched  and  chosen  them,  every  one.  He  took 
far  more  pleasure  and  interest  in  the  details  of  these 


'MISSING1  281 

few  rooms  than  in  any  of  his  own  houses  and  costly 
possessions. 

Suddenly — as  she  sat  there  on  the  window-ledge, 
considering  the  room,  her  back  to  the  mountains — < 
one  of  those  explosions  of  consciousness  rushed  upon 
Nelly,  which,  however  surprising  the  crash,  are  really 
long  prepared  and  inevitable. 

What  did  that  room  really  mean — the  artistic  and 
subtle  simplicity  of  it? — the  books,  the  flowers,  and 
the  few  priceless  things,  drawings  or  terra-cottas, 
brought  from  the  cottage,  and  changed  every  few 
weeks  by  Farrell  himself,  who  would  arrive  with 
them  under  his  arm,  or  in  his  pockets,  and  take  them 
back  in  like  manner. 

The  colour  flooded  into  Nelly's  face.  She  dropped 
it  in  her  hands  with  a  low  cry.  An  agony  seized 
her.  She  loathed  herself. 

Then  springing  up  passionately  she  began  to  pace 
the  narrow  floor,  her  slender  arms  and  hands  locked 
behind  her. 

Sir  William  was  coming  that  very  evening.  So 
was  Cicely,  who  was  to  be  her  own  guest  at  the  farm, 
while  Marsworth,  so  she  heard,  was  to  have  the 
spare  room  at  the  cottage. 

She  had  not  seen  William  Farrell  for  some  time — 
for  what  counted,  at  least,  as  some  time  in  their 
relation;  not  since  that  evening  before  Bridget  went 
away — more  than  a  fortnight.  But  it  was  borne  in 
upon  her  that  she  had  heard  from  him  practically 
every  day.  There,  in  the  drawer  of  her  writing- 


282!  'MISSING' 

table,  lay  the  packet  of  his  letters.  She  looked  for 
them  now  morning  after  morning,  and  if  they  failed 
her,  the  day  seemed  blank.  Anybody  might  have 
read  them — or  her  replies.  None  the  less  Farrell's 
letters  were  the  outpouring  of  a  man's  heart  and 
mind  to  the  one  person  with  whom  he  felt  himself 
entirely  at  ease.  The  endless  problems  and  happen- 
ings of  the  great  hospital  to  which  he  was  devoting 
more  and  more  energy,  and  more  and  more  wealth; 
the  incidents  and  persons  that  struck  him;  his  loves 
and  hates  among  the  staff  or  the  patients;  the 
humour  or  the  pity  of  the  daily  spectacle; — it  was  all 
there  in  his  letters,  told  in  a  rich  careless  English 
that  stuck  to  the  memory.  Nelly  was  accustomed  to 
read  and  re-read  them. 

Yes,  and  she  was  proud  to  receive  them ! — proud 
that  he  thought  so  much  of  her  opinion  and  cared 
so  much  for  her  sympathy.  But  why  did  he  write  to 
her,  so  constantly,  so  intimately? — what  was  the  real 
motive  of  it  all? 

At  last,  Nelly  asked  herself  the  question.  It  was 
fatal  of  course.  So  long  as  no  question  is  asked 
of  Lohengrin — who,  what,  and  whence  he  is — the 
spell  holds,  the  story  moves.  But  examine  it,  as  we 
all  know,  and  the  vision  fades,  the  gleam  is  gone. 

She  passed  rapidly,  and  almost  with  terror,  into 
a  misery  of  remorse.  What  had  she  been  doing  with 
this  kindest  and  best  of  men?  Allowing  him  to 
suppose  that  after  a  little  while  she  would  be  quite 
ready  to  forget  George  and  be  his  wife?  That 


'MISSING'  283 

threw  her  into  a  fit  of  helpless  crying.  The  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks  as  she  moved  to  and  fro.  Her 
George ! — falling  out  there,  in  that  ghastly  No  Man's 
Land,  dying  out  there,  alone,  with  no  one  to  help, 
and  quiet  now  in  his  unknown  grave.  And  after 
little  more  than  a  year  she  was  to  forget  him,  and 
be  rich  and  happy  with  a  new  lover — a  new  hus- 
band? 

She  seemed  to  herself  the  basest  of  women. 
Base  towards  George — and  towards  Farrell — both  I 
What  could  she  do  ? — what  must  she  do  ?  Oh,  she 
must  go  away — she  must  break  it  all  off!  And 
looking  despairingly  round  the  room,  which  only  an 
hour  before  had  seemed  to  her  so  dear  and  familiar, 
she  tried  to  imagine  herself  in  exile  from  all  it  repre- 
sented, cut  off  from  Farrell  and  from  Cicely,  left 
only  to  her  own  weak  self. 

But  she  must — she  must!  That  very  evening  she 
must  speak  to  Willy — she  must  have  it  out.  Of 
course  he  would  urge  her  to  stay  there — he  would 
promise  to  go  away — and  leave  her  alone.  But  that 
would  be  too  mean,  too  ungrateful.  She  couldn't 
banish  him  from  this  spot  that  he  loved,  where  he 
snatched  his  few  hours — always  now  growing  fewer 
— of  rest  and  pleasure.  No,  she  must  just  depart. 
Without  telling  him?  Without  warning?  Her  will 
failed  her. 

She  got  out  her  table,  with  its  knitting,  and  its 
bundles  of  prepared  work  which  had  arrived  that 
morning  from  the  workroom,  and  began  upon  one  of 


284  'MISSING' 

them  mechanically.  But  she  was  more  and  more 
weighed  down  by  a  sense  of  catastrophe — which  was 
also  a  sense  of  passionate  shame.  Why,  she.  was 
George's  wife,  _still! — his  wife — -f or; _who.,. could 
know,  for  certain* jJia^Ji€lwas»4ead?  That-waswhat 
the  law  meant.  Seven  years! 

She  spent  the  day  in  a  wretched  confusion  of 
thoughts  and  plans.  A  telegram  from  Cicely  arrived 
about  midday — '  Can't  get  to  you  till  to-morrow. 
Willy  and  Marsworth  coming  to-day — Marsworth 
not  till  late.' 

So  any  hour  might  bring  Farrell.  She  sat  des- 
perately waiting  for  him.  Meanwhile  there  was  a 
post-card  from  Bridget  saying  that  she  too  would 
probably  arrive  that  evening. 

That  seemed  the  last  straw.  Bridget  would  merely 
think  her  a  fool;  Bridget  would  certainly  quarrel 
with  her.  Why,  it  had  been  Bridget's  constant  ob- 
ject to  promote  the  intimacy  with  the  Farrells,  to 
throw  her  and  Sir  William  together.  Nelly  remem- 
bered her  own  revolts  and  refusals.  They  seemed 
now  so  long  ago!  In  those  days  it  was  jealousy 
for  George  that  filled  her,  the  fierce  resolve  to  let  no 
one  so  much  as  dream  that  she  could  ever  forget  him, 
and  to  allow  no  one  to  give  money  to  George's  wife, 
for  whom  George  himself  had  provided,  and  should 
still  provide.  And  at  an  earlier  stage — after  George 
left  her,  and  before  he  died — she  could  see  herself, 
as  she  looked  back,  keeping  Sir  William  firmly  at  a 


'MISSING*  285 

distance,  resenting  those  friendly  caressing  ways, 
which  others  accepted — which  she  too  now  accepted, 
so  meekly,  so  abominably!  She  thought  of  his 
weekly  comings  and  goings,  as  they  were  now;  how, 
in  greeting  and  good-bye,  he  would  hold  her  hands, 
both  of  them,  in  his;  how  once  or  twice  he  had 
raised  them  to  his  lips.  And  it  had  begun  to  seem 
quite  natural  to  her,  wretch  that  she  was;  because  he 
pitied  her,  because  he  was  so  good  to  her — and  so 
much  older,  nearly  twenty  years.  He  was  her 
brother  and  dear  friend,  and  she  the  little  sister 
whom  he  cherished,  who  sympathised  with  all  he  did, 
and  would  listen  as  long  as  he  pleased,  while  he 
talked  of  everything  that  filled  his  mind — the  war 
news,  his  work,  his  books,  his  companions;  or  would 
sit  by,  watching  breathlessly  while  his  skilful  hand 
put  down  some  broad  *  note  '  of  colour  or  light,  gen- 
erally on  a  page  of  her  own  sketch-book. 

Ah,  but  it  must  end — it  must  end  1  And  she  must 
tell  him  to-night. 

Then  she  fell  to  thinking  of  how  it  was  she  had 
been  so  blind  for  so  long;  and  was  now  in  this  tumult 
of  change.  One  moment,  and  she  was  still  the  Nelly 
of  yesterday,  cheerful,  patient,  comforted  by  the 
love  of  her  friends;  and  the  next,  she  had  become 
this  poor,  helpless  thing,  struggling  with  her  con- 
science, her  guilty  conscience,  and  her  sorrow.  How 
had  it  happened?  There  was  something  uncanny, 
miraculous  in  it.  But  anyway,  there,  in  a  flash  it 


286  'MISSING1 

stood  revealed — her  treason  to  George — her  un- 
kindness  to  Willy. 

For  she  would  never  marry  him — never!  She 
simply  felt  herself  an  unfaithful  wife — a  disloyal 
friend. 

The  November  day  passed  on,  cloudless,  to  its 
red  setting  over  the  Coniston  fells.  Wetherlam 
stood  black  against  the  barred  scarlet  of  the  west, 
and  all  the  valleys  lay  veiled  in  a  blue  and  purple 
mist,  traversed  by  rays  of  light,  wherever  a  break 
in  the  mountain  wall  let  the  sunset  through.  The 
beautiful  winter  twilight  had  just  begun,  when  Nelly 
heard  the  step  she  waited  for  outside. 

She  did  not  run  to  the  window  to  greet  him  as 
she  generally  did.  She  sat  still,  by  the  fire,  her  knit- 
ting on  her  knee.  Her  black  dress  was  very  black, 
with  the  plainest  white  ruffle  at  her  throat.  She 
looked  very  small  and  pitiful.  Perhaps  she  meant  to 
look  it  I  The  weak  in  dealing  with  the  strong  have 
always  that  instinctive  resource. 

4  How  jolly  to  find  you  alone ! '  said  Farrell  joy- 
ously, as  he  entered  the  room.  '  I  thought  Miss 
Bridget  was  due.'  He  put  down  the  books  with 
which  he  had  come  laden  and  approached  her  with 
outstretched  hands.  '  I  say ! — you  don't  look  well ! ' 
His  look,  suddenly  sobered,  examined  her. 

*  Oh  yes,  I  am  quite  well.  Bridget  comes  to- 
night.' 

She  hurriedly  withdrew  herself,  and  he  sat  down 


'MISSING'  287 

opposite  her,  holding  some  chilly  fingers  to  the  blaze, 
surveying  her  all  the  time. 

'Why  doesn't  Bridget  stop  here  and  look  after 
you?' 

Nelly  laughed.  *  Because  she  has  much  more  in- 
teresting things  to  do  I  * 

'  That's  most  unlikely  I  Have  you  been  alone  all 
the  week?' 

'  Yes,  but  quite  busy,  thank  you — and  quite  well.' 

I  You  don't  look  it,'  he  repeated  gravely,  after  a 
moment. 

'  So  busy,  and  so  well,'  she  insisted,  *  that  even  I 
can't  find  excuses  for  idling  here  much  longer.' 

He  gave  a  perceptible  start.  *  What  does  that 
mean  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  ' 

* 1  don't  know.  But  I  think ' — she  eyed  him  un- 
easily— '  hospital  work  of  some  kind.' 

He  shook  his  head. 

*  I   wouldn't  take  you  in  my  hospital  1     You'd 
knock  up  in  a  week.' 

'  You're  quite,  quite  mistaken,'  she  said,  eagerly. 

I 1  can  wash  dishes  and  plates  now  as  well  as  anyone. 
Hester  told  me  the  other  day  of  a  small  hospital 
managed  by  a  friend  of  hers — where  they  want  a 
parlour-maid.     I  could  do  that  capitally.' 

1  Where  is  it? '  he  asked,  after  a  moment. 
She  hesitated,  and  at  last  said  evasively — - 

*  In  Surrey  somewhere — I  think.' 

He  took  up  the  tongs,  and  deliberately  put  the 
fire  together,  in  silence.  At  last  he  said — 


288  'MISSING' 

'  I  thought  you  promised  Cicely  and  me  that  you 
wouldn't  attempt  anything  of  the  kind?  ' 

*  Not  till  I  was  fit.1    Her  voice  trembled  a  little. 
*  But  now  I  am — quite  fit* 

4  You  should  let  your  friends  judge  that  for  you,' 
he  said  gently. 

'  No,  no,  I  can't.  I  must  judge  for  myself.'  She 
spoke  with  growing  agitation.  *  You  have  been  so 
awfully,  awfully  good  to  me  ! — and  now  ' — she  bent 
forward  and  laid  a  pleading  hand  on  his  arm — 
'  now  you  must  be  good  to  me  in  another  way  I  you 
must  let  me  go.  I  brood  here  too  much.  I  want 
not  to  think — I  am  so  tired  of  myself.  Let 
me  go  and  think  about  other  people — drudge  a 
little — and  slave  a  little  I  Let  me — it  will  do  me 
good ! ' 

His  face  altered  perceptibly  during  this  appeal. 
When  he  first  came  in,  fresh  from  the  frosty  air,  his 
fair  hair  and  beard  flaming  in  the  firelight,  his  eyes 
all  pleasure,  he  had  seemed  the  embodiment  of  what- 
ever is  lusty  and  vigorous  in  life — an  overwhelming 
presence  in  the  little  cottage  room.  But  he  had  many 
subtler  aspects.  And  as  he  listened  to  her,  the  Vik- 
ing, the  demi-god,  disappeared. 

1  And  what  about  those — to  whom  it  will  do 
harm? ' 

*  Oh  no,   it  won't  do   harm — to   anybody,'   she 
faltered. 

'  It  will  do  the  greatest  harm ! ' — he  laid  a  sharp 
emphasis  on  the  words.  '  Isn't  it  worth  while  to  be 


'MISSING'  289 

just  the  joy  and  inspiration  of  those  who  can  work 
hard — so  that  they  go  away  from  you,  renewed  like 
eagles  ?  Cicely  and  I  come — we  tell  you  our  troubles 
— our  worries — our  failures,  and  our  successes.  We 
couldn't  tell  them  to  anyone  else.  But  you  sit  here ; 
and  you're  so  gentle  and  so  wise — you  see  things  so 
clearly,  just  because  you're  not  in  the  crowd,  not  in 
the  rough  and  tumble — that  we  go  away — bucked  up  1 
— and  run  our  shows  the  better  for  our  hours  with 
you.  Why  must  women  be  always  bustling  and 
hurrying,  and  all  of  them  doing  the  same  things?  If 
you  only  knew  the  blessing  it  is  to  find  someone  with 
a  little  leisure  just  to  feel,  and  think ! — just  to  listen 
to  what  one  has  to  say.  You  know  I  am  always 
bursting  with  things  to  say ! ' 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  laugh.  His  colour  had 
risen. 

4 1  arrive  here — often — full  of  grievances  and 
wrath  against  everybody — hating  the  Government — 
bating  the  War  Office — hating  our  own  staff,  or 
somebody  on  it — entirely  and  absolutely  persuaded 
that  the  country  is  going  to  the  dogs,  and  that  we 
shall  be  at  Germany's  mercy  in  six  months.  Well, 
there  you  sit — I  don't  know  how  you  manage  it ! — * 
but  somehow  it  all  clears  away.  I  don't  want  to 
hang  anybody  any  more — I  think  we  are  going  to  win 
— I  think  our  staff  are  splendid  fellows,  and  the 
nurses,  angels — (they  ain't,  though,  all  the  same!)  — 
and  it's  all  you! — just  by  being  you — just  by  giving 
me  rope  enough — letting  me  have  it  all  out.  And  I 


290  'MISSING* 

go  away  with  twice  the  work  In  me  I  had  when  I 
came.  And  Cicely's  the  same — and  Hester.  You 
play  upon  us  all — just  because  ' — he  hesitated — '  be- 
cause you're  so  sweet  to  us  all.  You  raise  us  to  a 
higher  power;  you  work  through  us.  Who  else  will 
do  it  if  you  desert  us? ' 

Her  lips  trembled. 

'  I  don't  want  to  desert  you,  but — what  right  have 
I  to  such  comfort — such  luxury — when  other  people 
are  suffering  and  toiling?' 

He  raised  his  eyebrows. 

*  Luxury?  This  little  room?  And  there  you  sit 
sewing  and  knitting  all  day!  And  I'll  be  bound  you 
don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow  I  * 

There  was  silence.  She  was  saying  to  herself — 
*  Shall  I  ever  be  able  to  go? — to  break  with  them 
all?'  The  thought,  the  image,  of  George  flashed 
again  through  her  mind.  But  why  was  it  so  much 
fainter,  so  much  less  distinct  than  it  had  been  an  hour 
ago?  Yet  she  seemed  to  turn  to  him,  to  beg  him 
piteously  to  protect  her  from  something  vague  and 
undefined. 

Suddenly  a  low  voice  spoke — 

'Nelly!— don't  go!' 

She  looked  up — startled — her  childish  eyes  full  of 
tears. 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  could  not  help  it, 
she  yielded  her  own. 

Farrell's  look  was  full  of  energy,  of  determina- 


'MISSING'  291 

tion.  He  drew  nearer  to  her,  still  holding  her  hand. 
But  he  spoke  with  perfect  self-control. 

4  Nelly,  I  won't  deceive  you !  I  love  you !  You 
are  everything  to  me.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  never 
been  happy — never  known  what  happiness  could  pos- 
sibly mean  till  I  knew  you.  To  come  here  every 
week — to  see  you  like  this  for  these  few  hours — it 
changes  everything — it  sweetens  everything — be- 
cause you  are  in  my  heart — because  I  have  the  hope 
— that  some  day ' 

She  withdrew  her  hand  and  covered  her  face. 

'Oh,  it's  my  fault — my  fault!'  she  said,  inco- 
herently— '  how  could  I  ? — how  could  I  ?  ' 

There  was  silence  again.  He  opened  his  lips  to 
speak  once  or  twice,  but  no  words  came.  One  ex- 
pression succeeded  another  on  his  face;  his  eyes 
sparkled.  At  last  he  said — '  How  could  you  help  it? 
You  could  not  prevent  my  loving  you.' 

'  Yes,  I  could — I  ought ,'  she  said,  vehemently. 

4  Only  I  was  a  fool — I  never  realised.  That's  so  like 
me.  I  won't  face  things.  And  yet ' — she  looked  at 
him  miserably — '  I  did  beg  you  to  let  me  live  my  own 
life — didn't  I  ? — not  to  spoil  me — not — not  to  be  so 
kind  to  me.' 

He  smiled. 

*  Yes.    But  then  you  see — you  were  you !  * 

She  sprang  up,  looking  down  upon  him,  as  he  sat 
by  the  fire.  '  That's  just  it.  If  I  were  another  per- 
son! But  no! — no!  I  can't  be  your  friend.  I'm 


292  'MISSING' 

not  old  enough — or  clever  enough.    And  I  can't  ever 
be  anything  else.' 

'  Why  ?  '  He  asked  it  very  quietly,  his  eyes  raised 
to  hers.  He  could  see  the  quick  beat  of  her  breath 
under  her  black  dress. 

*  Because  I'm  not  my  own.    I'm  not  free — you 
know  I'm  not.     I'm  not  free  legally — and  I'm  not 
free  in  heart.    Oh,  if  George  were  to  come  in  at  that 
door!  ' — she  threw  back  her  head  with  a  passionate 
gesture — *  there  would  be  nobody  else  in  the  world 
for  me — nobody — nobody ! ' 

He  stooped  over  the  fire,  fidgeting  with  it,  so  that 
his  face  was  hidden  from  her. 

*  You  know,  I  think,  that  if  I  believed  there  was 
the  faintest  hope  of  that,  I  should  never  have  said  a 
word — of  my  own  feelings.    But  as  it  is — why  must 
you  feel  bound  to  break  up  this — this  friendship, 
which  means  so  much  to  us  all?    What  harm  is  there 
in  it?    Time  will  clear  up  a  great  deal.    I'll  hold  my 
tongue — I  promise  you.     I  won't  bother  you.     I 
won't  speak  of  it  again — for  a  year — or  more — jf 
you  wish.    But — don't  forsake  us !  * 

He  looked  up  with  that  smile  which  in  Cicely's 
unbiased  opinion  gave  him  such  an  unfair  advantage 
over  womankind. 

With  a  little  sob,  Nelly  walked  away  towards  the 
window,  which  was  still  uncurtained  though  the  night 
had  fallen.  Outside  there  was  a  starry  deep  of  sky, 
above  Wetherlam  and  the  northern  fells.  The  great 


'MISSING'  293 

shapes  held  the  valley  in  guard;  the  river  windings 
far  below  seemed  still  to  keep  the  sunset;  while 
here  and  there  shone  scattered  lights  in  farms 
and  cottages,  sheltering  the  old,  old  life  of  the 
dales. 

Insensibly  Nelly's  passionate  agitation  began  to 
subside.  Had  she  been  filling  her  own  path  with 
imaginary  perils  and  phantoms?  Yet  there  echoed 
in  her  mind  the  low-spoken  words — '  I  won't  deceive 
you !  I  love  you ! '  And  the  recollection  both  fright- 
ened and  touched  her. 

Presently  Farrell  spoke  again,  quite  in  his  usual 
voice. 

4 1  shall  be  in  despair  if  you  leave  me  to  tackle 
Cicely  alone.  She's  been  perfectly  mad  lately.  But 
you  can  put  it  all  right  if  you  choose.' 

Nelly  was  startled  into  turning  back  towards  him. 

'Oh!— how  can  I?' 

'  Tell  her  she  has  been  behaving  abominably,  and 
making  a  good  fellow's  life  a  burden  to  .him.  Scold 
her!  Laugh  at  her! ' 

'What  has  she  been  doing?'  said  Nelly,  still 
standing  by  the  window. 

Farrell  launched  into  a  racy  and  elaborate  ac- 
count— the  effort  of  one  determined,  coute  que  coute, 
to  bring  the  conversation  back  to  an  ordinary  key — 
of  Cicely's  proceedings,  during  the  ten  days  since 
Nelly  had  seen  her. 

It  appeared  that  Marsworth,  after  many  weeks 
during  which  they  had  heard  nothing  of  him,  had 


294  'MISSING' 

been  driven  north  again  to  his  Carton  doctor,  by  a 
return  of  neuralgic  trouble  in  his  wounded  arm;  and 
as  usual  had  put  up  at  the  Rectory,  where  as 
usual  Miss  Daisy,  the  Rector's  granddaughter,  had 
ministered  to  him  like  the  kind  little  brick  she 
was. 

*  You  see,  she's  altogether  too  good  to  be  true ! ' 
said  Farrell.    '  And  yet  it  is  true.    She  looks  after 
her  grandfather  and  the  parish.     She  runs  the  Sun- 
day school,  and  all  the  big  boys  are  in  love  with  her. 
She  does  V.A.D.  work  at  the  hospital.    She  spends 
nothing  on  her  dress.    She's  probably  up  at  six  every 
morning.    And  all  the  time,  instead  of  being  plain, 
which  of  course  virtue  ought  to  be,  she's  as  pretty 
as  possible — like  a  little  bird.    And  Cicely  can't  abide 
her.    I  don't  know  whether  she's  in  love  with  Mars- 
worth.     Probably  she  is.    Why  not?    At  any  rate, 
whenever  Marsworth  and  Cicely  fall  out,  which  they 
do  every  day — Cicely  has  the  vile  habit — of  course 
you  know ! — of  visiting  Marsworth's  sins  upon  little 
Daisy  Stewart.    I  understood  she  was  guilty  of  some 
enormity  at  the  Red  Cross  sale  in  the  village  last 
week.    Marsworth  was  shocked,  and  had  it  out  with 
her.     Consequently  they  haven't  been  on  speaking 
terms  for  days.' 

*  What  shall  we  do  with  them  to-morrow?  '  cried 
Nelly  in  alarm,  coming  to  sit  down  again  by  the  fire 
and  taking  up  her  knitting.     How  strange  it  was — 
after  that  moment  of  tempestuous  emotion — to  have 
fallen  back  within  a  few  minutes  into  this  familiar, 


<MISSING'  295 

intimate  chat!  Her  pulse  was  still  rushing.  She 
knew  that  something  irrevocable  had  happened,  and 
that  when  she  was  alone,  she  must  face  it.  And 
meanwhile  here  she  sat  knitting ! — and  trying  to  help 
him  with  Cicely  as  usual ! 

'  Oh,  and  to-morrow ! ' — said  Farrell  with  amuse- 
ment, *  the  fat  will  indeed  be  in  the  fire.' 

And  he  revealed  the  fact  that  on  his  way  through 
Grasmere  he  had  fallen  in  with  the  Stewarts.  The 
old  man  had  been  suffering  from  bronchitis,  and  the 
two  had  come  for  a  few  days'  change  to  some  cousins 
at  Grasmere. 

'  And  the  old  man's  a  bit  of  a  collector  and  wants 
to  see  the  Turners.  He  knows  Carton  by  heart.  So 
I  had  to  ask  them  to  come  up  to-morrow — and  there 
it  is ! — Cicely  will  find  them  in  possession,  with  Mars- 
worth  in  attendance ! ' 

1  Why  does  she  come  at  all?  '  said  Nelly,  wonder- 
ing. *  She  knows  Captain  Marsworth  will  be  here. 
She  said  so,  in  her  telegram.' 

Farrell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  taks  aw  soarts  to  mak  a  worrld,"  as  they  say 
up  here.  But  Marsworth  and  Cis  are  queer  speci- 
mens !  I  am  privately  certain  he  can't  do  for  long 
without  seeing  her.  And  as  for  her,  I  had  no  sooner 
arranged  that  he  should  join  me  here  to-night,  than 
she  telegraphed  to  you!  Just  like  her!  I  had  no 
idea  she  thought  of  coming.  Well,  I  suppose  to 
quarrel  yourself  into  matrimony  is  one  of  the  recog- 
nised openings ! ' 


296  'MISSING* 

The  talk  dropped.  The  joint  consciousness  be- 
hind it  was  too  much  for  it.  It  fell  like  a  withered 
leaf. 

Farrell  got  up  to  go.  Nelly  too  rose,  trembling, 
to  her  feet.  He  took  her  hand, 

*  Don't  leave  us,'  he  repeated,  softly.  *  You  are 
our  little  saint — you  help  us  by  just  living.  Don't 
attempt  things  too  hard  for  you.  You'll  kill  your- 
self, and  then ' 

She  looked  at  him  mutely,  held  by  the  spell  of  his 
eyes. 

1  Well  then,'  he  finished,  abruptly,  *  there  won't 
be  much  left  for  one  man  to  live  for.  Good- 
night.' 

He  was  gone,  and  she  was  left  standing  in  the 
firelight,  a  small,  bewildered  creature. 

4  What  shall  I  do  ? '  she  was  saying  to  herself, 
1  Oh,  what  ought  I  to  do  ?  * 

She  sank  down  on  the  floor,  and  hid  her  face 
against  a  chair.  Helplessly,  she  wished  that  Hester 
would  come ! — someone  wise  and  strong  who  would 
tell  her  what  was  right.  The  thought  of  supplant- 
ing George,  of  learning  to  forget  him,  of  letting 
somebody  else  take  his  place  in  her  heart,  was  hor- 
rible— even  monstrous — to  her.  Yet  she  did  not 
know  how  she  would  ever  find  the  strength  to  make 
Farrell  suffer.  His  devotion  appealed — not  to  any 
answering  passion  in  her — there  was  none — but  to 
an  innate  lovingness,  that  made  it  a  torment  to  her 
to  refuse  to  love  and  be  loved.  Her  power  of  dream, 


'MISSING'  297 

of  visualisation,  shewed  him  to  her  alone  and  un- 
happy; when,  perhaps,  she  might  still — without  harm 
— have  been  a  help  to  him — have  shewn  him  her 
gratitude.  She  felt  herself  wavering  and  retreating; 
seeking,  as  usual,  the  easiest  path  out  of  her  great 
dilemma.  Must  she  either  be  disloyal  to  her  George? 
— her  dead,  her  heroic  George ! — or  unkind  to  this 
living  man,  whose  unselfish  devotion  had  stood  be- 
tween her  and  despair?  After  all,  might  it  not  still 
go  on?  She  could  protect  herself.  She  was  not 
afraid. 

But  she  was  afraid !  She  was  in  truth  held  by  the 
terror  of  her  own  weakness,  and  Farrell's  strength, 
as  she  lay  crouching  by  the  fire. 

Outside  the  wind  was  rising.  Great  clouds  were 
coming  up  from  the  south-west.  The  rain  had  begun. 
Soon  it  was  lashing  the  windows,  and  pouring  from 
the  eaves  of  the  old  farmhouse. 

Nelly  went  back  to  her  work;  and  the  wind  and 
rain  grew  wilder  as  the  hours  passed.  Just  as  she 
was  thinking  wearily  of  going  to  bed,  there  were 
sounds  of  wheels  outside. 

Bridget?  so  late !  Nelly  had  long  since  given  her 
up.  What  a  night  on  which  to  face  the  drive  from 
Windermere !  Poor  horse ! — poor  man  I 

Yes,  it  was  certainly  Bridget!  As  Nelly  half  rose, 
she  heard  the  harsh,  deep  voice  upon  the  stairs.  A 
tall  figure,  heavily  cloaked,  entered. 

'  My  dear  Bridget — I'd  quite  given  you  up ! ' 

*  No  need,'  said  Bridget  coolly,  as  she  allowed 


298  'MISSING* 

Nelly  to  kiss  her  cheek.  *  The  afternoon  train  from 
Euston  was  a  little  late.  You  can't  help  that  with 
all  these  soldiers  about.' 

1  Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire.  Have  you  done 
all  you  wanted  to  do  ?  ' 

4  Yes.' 

Bridget  sat  down,  after  taking  off  her  wet  water- 
proof, and  held  a  draggled  hat  to  the  blaze.  Nelly 
looking  at  her  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  Bridget's 
hair  had  grown  very  grey,  and  the  lines  in  her  face 
very  deep.  What  an  extraordinary  person  Bridget 
was!  What  had  she  been  doing  all  this  time? 

But  nothing  could  be  got  out  of  the  traveller.  She 
sat  by  the  fire  for  a  while,  and  let  Nelly  get  her  a 
tray  of  food.  But  she  said  very  little,  except  to 
complain  of  the  weather,  and,  once,  to  ask  if  the 
Farrells  were  at  the  cottage. 

1  Sir  William  is  there,  with  Captain  Marsworth,' 
said  Nelly.  *  Cicely  comes  here  to-morrow.' 

4  Does  she  expect  me  to  give  her  my  room? '  said 
Bridget  sharply. 

4  Not  at  all.    She  likes  the  little  spare-room.' 

1  Or  pretends  to !  Has  Sir  William  been  here 
to-day?  ' 

4  Yes,  he  came  round.' 

A  few  more  questions  and  answers  led  to  silence 
broken  only  by  the  crackling  of  the  fire.  The  fire- 
light played  on  Nelly's  cheek  and  throat,  and  on  her 
white  languid  hands.  Presently  it  caught  her  wed- 
ding-ring, and  Bridget's  eye  was  drawn  to  the  sparkle 


'MISSING'  299 

of  the  gold.  She  sat  looking  absently  at  her  sister. 
She  was  thinking  of  a  tiny  room  in  a  hut  hospital — 
of  the  bed — and  of  those  eyes  that  had  opened  on 
her.  And  there  sat  Nelly — knowing  nothing! 

It  was  all  a  horrible  anxiety.    But  it  couldn't  last 
long. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

O  you  are  not  at  church?  ' 

The  voice  was  Marsworth's  as  he  stepped 
inside  the  flagged  passage  of  the  farm,  Nelly 
having  just  opened  the  door  to  him. 

*  It's  so  far ! — in  winter,'  said  Nelly  a  little  guiltily. 
4 1  go  to  Grasmere  in  summer.' 

*  Oh !   don't   apologise — to   a  heathen   like  me ! 
I'm  only  too  thankful  to  find  you  alone.     Is  your 
sister  here? ' 

'  Yes.  But  we've  made  a  room  for  her  in  one  of 
the  outhouses.  She  works  there.' 

'  What  at?  Is  she  still  learning  Spanish?  '  asked 
Marsworth,  smiling,  as  he  followed  Nelly  into  the 
little  white  drawing-room. 

*  I  don't  know,'  said  Nelly,  after  a  moment,  in  a 
tone  of  depression.    '  Bridget  doesn't  tell  me.' 

The  corners  of  Marsworth's  strong  mouth 
shewed  amusement.  He  was  not  well  acquainted 
with  Bridget  Cookson,  but  as  far  as  his  observation 
went,  she  seemed  to  him  a  curious  specimen  of  the 
half-educated  pretentious  woman  so  plentiful  in  our 
modern  life.  In  place  of  '  psychology '  and  '  old 
Spanish,'  the  subjects  in  which  Miss  Cookson  was 
said  to  be  engaged,  he  would  have  liked  to  prescribe 
300 


'MISSING'  301 

for  her — and  all  her  kin — courses  of  an  elementary 
kind  in  English  history  and  vulgar  fractions. 

But,  for  Nelly  Sarratt,  Marsworth  felt  the  tender 
and  chivalrous  respect  that  natures  like  hers  exact 
easily  from  strong  men.  To  him,  as  to  Farrell,  she 
was  the  '  little  saint '  and  peacemaker,  with  her  lov- 
ingness,  her  sympathy,  her  lack  of  all  the  normal 
vanities  and  alloys  that  beset  the  pretty  woman. 
That  she  was  not  a  strong  character,  that  she  was 
easily  influenced  and  guided  by  those  who  touched 
her  affections,  he  saw.  But  that  kind  of  weakness 
in  a  woman — when  that  woman  also  possesses  the 
mysterious  something,  half  physical,  half  spiritual, 
which  gives  delight — is  never  unpleasing  to  such  men 
as  Marsworth,  nor  indeed  to  other  women.  It  was 
Marsworth's  odd  misfortune  that  he  should  have 
happened  to  fall  in  love  with  a  young  woman  who 
had  practically  none  of  the  qualities  that  he  naturally 
and  spontaneously  admired  in  the  sex. 

It  was,  however,  about  that  young  woman  that  he 
had  come  to  talk.  For  he  was  well  aware  of  Nelly's 
growing  intimacy  with  Cicely,  and  had  lately  begun 
to  look  upon  that  as  his  last  hope. 

Yet  he  was  no  sooner  alone  with  Nelly  than  he 
felt  a  dim  compunction.  This  timid  creature,  with 
her  dark  haunting  eyes,  had  problems  enough  of  her 
own  to  face.  He  perceived  clearly  that  Farrell's 
passion  for  her  was  mounting  fast,  and  he  had  little 
or  no  idea  what  kind  of  response  she  was  likely  to 
make  to  it.  But  all  the  same  his  own  need  drove  him 


302  'MISSING' 

on.  And  Nelly,  who  had  scarcely  slept  all  night, 
caught  eagerly  at  some  temporary  escape  from  her 
own  perplexities. 

*  Dear  Mrs.  Sarratt! — have  you  any  idea,  whether 
Cicely  cares  one  brass  farthing  for  me,  or  not? ' 

To  such  broad  and  piteous  appeal  was  a  gallant 
officer  reduced.  Nelly  was  sorry  for  him,  but  could 
not  hide  the  smile  in  her  eyes,  as  she  surveyed  him. 

*  Have  you  really  asked  her? ' 

1  Asked  her?  Many  times ! — in  the  dark  ages.  It 
is  months,  however,  since  she  gave  me  the  smallest 
chance  of  doing  it  again.  Everything  I  do  or  say 
appears  to  annoy  her,  and  of  course,  naturally,  I 
have  relieved  her  of  my  presence  as  much  as  pos- 
sible.' 

Nelly  had  taken  up  her  knitting. 

'  If  you  never  come — perhaps — Cicely  thinks  you 
are  tired  of  her.' 

Marsworth  groaned. 

'  Is  that  her  line  now?  And  yet  you  know — you 
are  witness ! — of  how  she  behaves  when  I  do  come.' 

Nelly  looked  up  boldly. 

1  You  mustn't  be  angry,  but — why  can't  you  accept 
her — as  she  is — without  always  wanting  her  dif- 
ferent?' 

Marsworth  flushed  slightly.  The  impressive  effect 
of  his  fine  iron-grey  head,  and  marked  features,  his 
scrupulously  perfect  dress,  and  general  look  of  com- 
petence and  ability,  was  deplorably  undone  by  the 
signs  in  him  of  bewilderment  and  distress. 


'MISSING'  303 

'  You  mean — you  think  I  bully  her  ? — she  thinks 
so?' 

'  She — she  feels — you  so  dreadfully  disapprove  of 
her !  '  said  Nelly,  sticking  to  it,  but  smiling. 

'  She  regards  me  as  a  first-class  prig  in  fact?  ' 

'  No — but  she  thinks  you  don't  always  understand.' 

*  That  I  don't  know  what  a  splendid  creature  she 
is,  really?'  said  Marsworth  with  increasing  agita- 
tion.   '  But  I  do  know  it !    I  know  it  up  and  down. 
Why  everybody — except  those  she  dislikes ! — at  that 
hospital,  adores  her.     She's  wearing  herself  out  at 
the  work.     None  of  us  are  fit  to  black  her  boots. 
But  if  one  ever  tries  to  tell  her  so — my  hat ! ' 

'  Perhaps  she  doesn't  like  being  praised  either,1 
said  Nelly  softly.  '  Perhaps  she  thinks — an  old 
friend — should  take  it  all  for  granted.' 

*  Good  Lord ! '  said  Marsworth  holding  his  head 
in  desperation — 'whatever  I  do  is  wrong!     Dear 
Mrs.  Sarratt ! — look  here — I  must  speak  up  for  my- 
self.    You  know  how  Cicely  has  taken  of  late  to 
being  intolerably  rude  to  anybody  she  thinks  is  my 
friend.    She  castigates  me  through  them.    That  poor 
little  girl,  Daisy  Stewart — why  she's  ready  at  any 
moment  to  worship  Cicely!     But  Cicely  tramples 
on  her — you  know  how  she  does  it — and  if  I  inter- 
fere, I'm  made  to  wish  I  had  never  been  born !    At 
the   present   moment,    Cicely  won't   speak   to   me. 
There    was    some    silly    shindy    at    a    parish    tea 
last    week — by    the    way,    she's    coming    to    you 
to-day?' 


304  'MISSING' 

1  She  arrives  for  lunch,'  said  Nelly,  looking  at  the 
clock. 

'  And  the  Stewarts  are  coming  to  the  cottage  in 
the  afternoon ! '  said  Marsworth  in  despair.  *  Can 
you  keep  her  away?' 

4  I'll  try — but  you  know  it's  not  much  good  trying 
to  manage  Cicely.' 

*  Don't  I  know  it  I     I  return  to  my  first  ques- 
tion— does  she  care  a  hapo'rth?' 

Nelly  was  looking  dreamily  into  the  fire. 
1  You  mean — does  she  care  enough  to  give  up  her 
ways  and  take  to  yours  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  suppose  I  do  mean  that,'  he  said,  with 
sudden  seriousness. 

Nelly  shook  her  head,  smiling. 

*  I  don't  know !     But — Cicely's  worth  a  deal  of 
trouble.' 

He  assented  with  a  mixture  of  fervour  and  de- 
pression. 

*  We've  known  each  other  since  we  were  boy  and 
girl.    That's  what  makes  the  difficulty,  perhaps.    We 
know  each  other  too  well.    When  she  was  a  child  of 
fourteen,  I  was  already  in  the  Guards,  and  I  used  to 
try  and  tackle  her — because  no  one  else  would.    Her 
father  was  dead.    Her  mother  had  no  influence  with 
her;  and  Willy  was  too  lazy.    So  I  tried  my  hand. 
And  I  find  myself  doing  the  same  thing  now.    But 
of  course  it's  fatal — it's  fatal ! ' 

Nelly  tried  to  cheer  him  up,  but  she  was  not  her- 
self very  hopeful.  She  perceived  too  clearly  the 


'MISSING'  305; 

martinet  in  him  and  the  rebel  in  Cicely.  If  some- 
thing were  suddenly  to  throw  them  together,  some 
common  interest  or  emotion,  each  might  find  the 
other's  heart  in  a  way  past  undoing.  On  the  other 
hand  the  jarring  habit,  once  set  up,  has  a  way  of 
growing  worse,  and  reducing  everything  else  to  dust 
and  ashes.  Finally  she  wound  up  with  a  timid  but 
emphatic  counsel. 

'  Please — please — don't  be  sarcastic.' 

He  looked  injured. 

*  I  never  am !  ' 
Nelly  laughed. 

'  You  don't  know  when  you  are.  And  be  very 
nice  to  her  this  afternoon.' 

'  How  can  I,  if  she  shews  me  at  once  that  I'm 
unwelcome?  You  haven't  answered  my  question." 

He  was  standing  ready  for  departure.  Nelly's 
face  changed — became  all  sad  and  tender  pity. 

*  You  must  ask  it  yourself ! '  she  said  eagerly. 
1  Go  on  asking  it.     It  would  be  too — too  dreadful, 
wouldn't  it? — to  miss  everything — by  being  proud, 
or  offended,  for  nothing ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  everything?  ' 
1  You  know,'  she  said,  after  a  moment,  shielding 
her  eyes  as  they  looked  into  the  fire;  c  I'm  sure  you 
know.    It  is  everything.' 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  cottage,  he  found  him- 
self speculating  not  so  much  about  his  own  case  as 
about  his  friend's.  Willy  was  certainly  in  love.  And 
Nelly  Sarratt  was  as  softly  feminine  as  Cicely  was 


306  'MISSING' 

mannish  and  strong.  But  he  somehow  did  not  feel 
that  Willy's  chances  were  any  safer  than  his  own. 

A  car  arrived  at  one  o'clock  bringing  Cicely,  much 
wrapped  up  in  fur  coat  and  motor-veils.  She  came 
impetuously  into  the  sitting-room,  and  seemed  to  fill 
it.  It  took  some  time  to  peel  her  and  reduce  her  to 
the  size  of  an  ordinary  mortal.  She  then  appeared 
in  a  navy-blue  coat  and  skirt,  with  navy-blue  boots 
buttoned  almost  to  the  knees.  The  skirt  was  im- 
mensely full  and  immensely  short.  When  the  strange 
erection  to  which  the  motor-veil  was  attached  was 
removed,  Cicely  showed  a  dark  head  with  hair  cut 
almost  short,  and  parted  on  the  left  side.  Her  eye- 
brows were  unmistakably  blackened,  her  lips  unmis- 
takably— strengthened ;  and  Nelly  saw  at  once  that  her 
guest  was  in  a  very  feverish  and  irritated  condition. 

'Are  you  alone?'  said  Cicely,  glancing  imperi- 
ously round  her,  when  the  disrobing  was  done. 

'  Bridget  is  here.' 

'What  are  you  going  to  do  this  afternoon?' 

*  Can't  we  have  a  walk,  you  and  I,  together? ' 

4  Of  course  we  can.  Why  should  we  be  bothered 
with  anyone  else  ?  ' 

1 1  suppose,'  said  Nelly  timidly — '  they  will  come 
in  to  tea?' 

'  "  They  "  ?  Oh !  you  mean  Willy  and  Captain 
Marsworth?  It  is  such  a  pity  Willy  can't  find  some- 
body more  agreeable  for  these  Sundays.' 

Cicely  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and  lifted  a 
navy-blue  boot  to  the  fire. 


'MISSING'  307 

'  More  agreeable  than  Captain  Marsworth?  ' 

'  Exactly.  Willy  can't  do  anything  without  him, 
when  he's  in  these  parts;  and  it  spoils  everything!  ' 

Nelly  dropped  a  kiss  on  Cicely's  hair,  as  she  stood 
beside  her. 

1  Why  didn't  you  put  off  coming  till  next 
week?  ' 

'  Why  should  I  allow  my  plans  to  be  interfered 
with  by  Captain  Marsworth?  '  said  Cicely,  haughtily. 
*  I  came  to  see  you! ' 

'  Well,  we  needn't  see  much  of  him,'  said  Nelly, 
soothingly,  as  she  dropped  on  a  stool  beside  her 
friend. 

*  I'm  not  going  to  be  kept  out  of  the  cottage,  by 
Captain    Marsworth,    all   the   same !  '    said    Cicely 
hastily.     *  There  are  several  books  there  I  want.' 

'Oh,  Cicely,  what  have  you  been  doing?'  said 
Nelly,  laying  her  head  on  her  guest's  knees. 

'Doing?  Nothing  that  I  hadn't  a  perfect  right 
to  do.  But  I  suppose — that  very  particular  gentle- 
man— has  been  complaining?' 

Nelly  looked  up,  and  met  an  eye,  fiercely  inter- 
rogative, yet  trying  hard  not  to  be  interrogative. 

4  I've  been  doing  my  best  to  pick  up  the  pieces.' 

*  Then  he  has  been  complaining?  ' 

'  A  little  narrative  of  facts,'  said  Nelly  mildly. 

'  Facts — facts/'  said  Cicely,  with  the  air  of  a  dis- 
turbed lioness.  '  As  if  a  man  whose  ideas  of  manners 
and  morals  date  from  about — a  million  years  before 
the  Flood.' 


308  *  MISSING ' 

'  Dear ! — there  weren't  any  manners  or  morals  a 
million  years  before  the  Flood.' 

Cicely  drew  a  breath  of  exasperation. 

'  It's  all  very  well  to  laugh,  but  if  you  only  knew 
how  impossible  that  man  is !  * 

4  Then  why  not  get  a  Sunday  free  from  him? ' 

Cicely  flushed  against  her  will,  and  said  nothing. 
Nelly's  black  eyes  observed  her  with  as  much  sarcasm 
in  their  sweetness  as  she  dared  to  throw  into  them. 
She  changed  her  tone. 

'  Don't  go  to  the  cottage  this  afternoon,  Cicely.* 

*  Why?  '    The  voice  was  peremptory. 

'Well,  because '     Nelly  described  Farrell's 

chance  meeting  with  the  Stewarts  and  the  inevitable 
invitation.  Cicely's  flush  deepened.  But  she  tried 
to  speak  carelessly. 

*  Of  course,  the  merest  device  on  that  girl's  part ! 
She  arranged  it  all.' 

'  I  really  don't  think  she  did.' 

*  Ah,  well,  you  haven't  seen  what's  been  going  on. 
A  more  shameless  pursuit ' 

Cicely  stopped  abruptly.  There  was  a  sudden 
sparkle  in  Nelly's  look,  which  seemed  to  shew 
that  the  choice  of  the  word  *  pursuit '  had  been 
unlucky. 

Miss  Farrell  quieted  down. 

c  Of  course,'  she  said,  with  a  very  evident  attempt 
to  recapture  whatever  dignity  might  be  left  on  the 
field,  '  neither  Willy  nor  I  like  to  see  an  old  friend 
throwing  himself  away  on  a  little  pink  and  white 


<MISSING'  309 

nonentity  like  Daisy  Stewart.  We  can't  be  expected 
to  smile  upon  it.' 

(  But  I  understand,  from  one  of  the  parties  prin- 
cipally concerned,  that  there  is  really  nothing  in  it!  * 
said  Nelly,  smiling. 

'  One  of  the  perjuries  I  suppose  at  which  Jove 
laughs ! '  said  Cicely  getting  up,  and  hastily  rearrang- 
ing her  short  curls  with  the  help  of  various  combs, 
before  the  only  diminutive  looking-glass  the  farm 
sitting-room  provided.  '  However,  we  shall  see  what 
happens.  I  have  no  doubt  Miss  Daisy  has  arranged 
the  proposal  scene  for  this  very  afternoon.  We  shall 
be  in  for  the  last  act  of  the  play.' 

1  Then  you  are  going  to  the  cottage  ? ' 

4  Certainly !  '  said  Cicely,  with  a  clearing  brow. 
*  Don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  it.  Do  give 
me  some  lunch.  I'm  ravenous.  Ah,  here's  your 
sister ! ' 

For  through  a  back  window  looking  on  what  had 
once  been  a  farm-yard,  and  was  now  a  small  garden, 
Cicely  saw  Bridget  emerge  from  the  rebuilt  outhouse 
where  an  impromptu  study  had  been  devised  for  her, 
and  walk  towards  the  farm. 

'  I  say,  what's  happened  to  your  sister?  ' 

1  Happened  to  her  ?   What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

*  She  looks  so  much  older.' 

*  I   suppose  she's  been  working  too  hard,'  said 
Nelly,  remorsefully.    *  I  wish  I  knew  what  it  was  all 
about.' 

*  Well,  I  can  tell  you  ' — said  Cicely  laughing  and 


310  'MISSING* 

whispering — *  that  Willy  doesn't  think  it's  about  any- 
thing in  particular !  f 

'  Hush ! '  said  Nelly,  with  a  pained  look.  c  Per- 
haps we  shall  all  turn  out  to  be  quite  wrong.  We 
shall  discover  that  it  was  something ' 

*  Desperately  interesting  and  important?  Not  itl 
But  I'm  going  to  be  as  good  as  good.  You'll  see.' 

And  when  Bridget  appeared,  Cicely  did  indeed 
behave  herself  with  remarkable  decorum.  Her 
opinion  was  that  Nelly's  strange  sister  had  grown 
more  unlike  other  people  than  ever  since  she  had  last 
seen  her.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a  perpetual  brown 
study,  which  was  compatible,  however,  with  a  curi- 
ous watchfulness  which  struck  Cicely  particularly. 
She  was  always  aware  of  any  undercurrent  in  the 
room — of  anyone  going  in  or  out — of  persons  pass- 
ing in  the  road.  At  lunch  she  scarcely  opened  her 
lips,  but  Cicely  was  all  the  time  conscious  of  being 
observed.  After  luncheon  Bridget  got  up  abruptly, 
and  said  she  was  going  down  to  Grasmere  to  post 
a  letter. 

'  Oh,  then,'  said  Nelly — '  you  can  ask  if  there  are 
any  for  me.' 

For  there  was  no  delivery  at  the  farm  on  Sunday 
morning.  Bridget  nodded,  and  they  soon  saw  her 
emerge  from  the  farm  gate  and  take  the  Grasmere 
road. 

'  I  must  say  your  sister  seems  greatly  to  prefer 
her  own  company  to  ours,'  said  Cicely,  lighting  her 
cigarette. 


'MISSING'  311 

Again  Nelly  looked  distressed. 

1  She  was  always  like  that,'  she  said  at  last.  *  It 
doesn't  really  mean  anything.' 

4  Do  I  know  you  well  enough  to  ask  whether  you 
get  on  with  her?  * 

Nelly  coloured.  *  I  try  my  best ' — she  said,  rather 
despairingly.  Then  she  added — *  she  does  all  sorts 
of  things  for  me  that  I'm  too  lazy  to  do  for 
myself!' 

'  I  believe  she  likes  Willy  better  than  most  peo- 
ple ! '  laughed  Cicely.  '  I'm  not  suggesting,  please, 
that  she  has  designs  upon  him.  But  she  is  certainly 
more  forthcoming  to  him  than  to  anybody  else,  isn't 
she?' 

Nelly  did  not  reply.  The  remark  only  clouded  her 
look  still  more.  For  her  inner  mind  was  perfectly 
aware  of  Bridget's  attitude  towards  William  Farrell, 
and  understood  it  only  too  well.  She  knew  by  this 
time,  past  any  doubt,  that  Bridget  was  hungry  for 
the  Farrell  wealth,  and  was  impatient  with  herself 
as  a  little  fool  who  had  not  yet  made  certain  of  it. 
If  she  stuck  to  her  purpose — if  she  went  away  and 
cut  off  all  communication  with  Carton — Bridget 
would  probably  quarrel  with  her  for  good. 

Would  she  stick  to  her  purpose  ?  Her  mind  was 
miserably  swaying  to  and  fro.  She  felt  morally  as 
she  had  once  felt — physically — on  a  summer  after- 
noon long  before,  when  she,  who  could  not  swim, 
had  gone  imperceptibly  out  of  her  depth,  while  bath- 
ing, and  had  become  suddenly  aware  of  a  seaward 


3i2  'MISSING' 

current,  carrying  her  away.  No  help  was  near.  For 
five  minutes,  which  had  seemed  five  years,  she  had 
wrestled  against  the  deadly  force,  which  if  her  girl- 
ish strength  had  been  a  fraction  less,  would  have 
swept  her  out,  a  lifeless  plaything  to  the  open  sea. 
Spiritually,  it  was  the  same  now.  Farrell's  will,  and 
— infinitely  less  important,  but  still,  to  be  reckoned 
with — Bridget's  will,  were  pressing  her  hard.  She 
did  not  know  if  she  could  keep  her  footing. 

Meanwhile  Cicely,  in  complete  ignorance  of  the 
new  and  agonised  tension  in  Nelly's  mind,  was  think- 
ing only  of  her  own  affairs.  As  soon  as  her  after- 
luncheon  cigarette  was  done,  she  sprang  up  and 
began  to  put  on  her  hat. 

1  So  you  are  going  to  the  cottage  ?  '  said  Nelly. 

'  Certainly.    How  do  you  like  my  boots?  * 

She  held  up  one  for  inspection. 

'I  don't  like  them!' 

4  Fast,  you  think?  Ah,  wait  till  you  see  my  next 
costume!  High  Russian  boots,  delicious  things,  up 
to  there ! '  Cicely  indicated  a  point  above  the  knee, 
not  generally  reached  by  the  female  boot — '  hand- 
painted  and  embroidered — with  tassels — you  know  1 
— corduroy  trousers ! ' 

1  Cicely ! — you  won't ! ' 

'  Shan't  I — and  a  pink  jersey,  the  new  shade?  I 
saw  a  friend  of  mine  in  this  get-up,  last  week.  Rip- 
..  ping !  Only  she  had  red  hair,  which  completed  it. 
Perhaps  I  might  dye  mine ! ' 

They  sallied  forth  into  a  mild  winter  afternoon. 


'MISSING'  313 

Nelly  would  have  avoided  the  cottage  and  Farrell  if 
she  could,  but  Cicely  had  her  own  way  as  usual. 
Presently  they  turned  into  a  side  lane  skirting  the 
tarn,  from  which  the  cottage  and  its  approaches  could 
be  seen,  at  a  distance.  From  the  white-pillared 
porch,  various  figures  were  emerging,  four  in  all. 

Cicely  came  to  a  stop. 

'  There,  you  see ! '  she  said,  in  her  sharpest  voice — « 
*  Look  there  ! '  For  two  of  the  figures,  whom  it  was 
easy  to  identify  as  Captain  Marsworth  and  Miss 
Stewart,  diverging  from  the  other  pair,  went  off  by 
themselves  in  the  direction  of  Skelwith,  with  a  gay 
wave  of  the  hand  to  the  old  Rector  and  Farrell  left 
behind. 

Cicely's  sudden  scarlet  ebbed  in  a  moment,  leaving 
her  quite  white.  She  walked  on  with  difficulty,  her 
eyes  on  the  ground.  Nelly  dared  not  address  her,  or 
slip  a  sympathising  hand  into  hers.  And  it  was  too 
late  to  retreat.  Farrell  had  perceived  them,  and  he 
and  his  companion  came  towards  them.  Cicely 
pulled  herself  rapidly  together. 

Nelly  too  had  need  of  a  minute  or  two's  recollec- 
tion before  Farrell  joined  them.  He  and  she  were 
still  to  meet  as  usual,  while  meeting  was  possible — 
wasn't  that  how  it  stood?  After  all,  her  new  plans 
could  not  be  made  in  a  moment.  She  had  promised 
nothing;  but  he  had  promised — would  she  be  able 
to  hold  him  to  it?  Her  heart  trembled  as  he  came 
nearer. 

But  he  met  her  in  a  sunny  mood,  introducing  her 


3  H  '  MISSING ' 

to  the  white-haired  old  clergyman,  and  watching 
Cicely  with  eyes  that  shewed  a  hidden  amusement. 

*  The  other  two  seemed  to  have  some  private  busi- 
ness to  discuss,'  he  said  carelessly.  '  So  they've  got 
rid  of  us  for  a  while.  They're  walking  round  the 
other  side  of  the  tarn  and  will  join  us  at  the  top  of 
Red  Bank.  At  least  if  you're  up  to  a  walk?  ' 

He  addressed  Nelly,  who  could  do  nothing  but 
assent,  though  it  meant  a  tete-a-tete  with  him,  while 
Cicely  and  the  old  Rector  followed. 

Mr.  Stewart  found  Miss  Farrell  anything  but  an 
agreeable  companion.  He  was  not  a  shrewd  ob- 
server, and  the  love-affairs  especially  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  were  always  a  surprise  and  a  mystery  to 
him.  But  he  vaguely  understood  that  his  little  grand- 
daughter was  afraid  of  Miss  Farrell  and  did  not  get 
pn  with  her.  He,  too,  was  afraid  of  Cicely  and  her 
sharp  tongue,  while  her  fantastic  dress  and  her  rouge 
put  him  in  mind  of  passages  in  the  prophet  Ezekiel, 
the  sacred  author  of  whom  he  was  at  that  moment 
making  a  special  study  with  a  view  to  a  Cambridge 
University  sermon.  It  would  be  terrible  if  Daisy 
were  ever  to  take  to  imitating  Miss  Farrell.  He 
was  a  little  disturbed  about  Daisy  lately.  She  had 
been  so  absent-minded,  and  sometimes — even — a 
little  flighty.  She  had  forgotten  the  day  before,  to 
look  out  some  passages  for  him;  and  there  was  a  rent 
in  his  old  overcoat  she  had  not  mended.  He  was 
disagreeably  conscious  of  it.  And  what  could  she 


'MISSING'  315 

have  to  say  to  Captain  Marsworth?  It  was  all 
rather  odd — and  annoying.  He  walked  in  a  pre- 
occupied silence. 

Farrell  and  Nelly  meanwhile  were,  it  seemed,  in 
no  lack  of  conversation.  He  told  her  that  he  might 
possibly  be  going  to  France,  in  a  week  or  two,  for  a 
few  days.  The  Allied  offensive  on  the  Somme  was 
apparently  shutting  down  for  the  winter.  '  The 
weather  in  October  just  broke  everybody's  heart, 
vile  luck !  Nothing  to  be  done  but  to  make  the  win- 
ter as  disagreeable  to  the  Boche  as  we  can,  and  to  go 
on  piling  up  guns  and  shells  for  the  spring.  I'm 

going  to  look  at  hospitals  at  X '  he  named  a 

great  base  camp — *  and  I  daresay  they'll  let  me  have 
a  run  along  some  bit  of  the  front,  if  there's  a  motor 
to  be  had.' 

Nelly  stopped  abruptly.  He  could  see  the  colour 
fluctuating  in  her  delicate  face. 

'You're  going  to  X ?  You — you  might  see 

Dr.  Howson?' 

'Howson?'  he  said,  surprised.  'Do  you  know 
him?  Yes,  I  shall  certainly  see  Howson.  He's  now 
the  principal  surgeon  at  one  of  the  General  Hospitals 
there,  where  I  specially  want  to  look  at  some  new 
splints  they've  been  trying.' 

Nelly  moved  on  without  speaking  for  a  little.  At 
last  she  said,  almost  inaudibly — 

1  He  promised  me — to  make  enquiries.' 

'  Did  he  ?  '  Farrell  spoke  in  the  grave,  deep  voice 
he  seemed  to  keep  for  her  alone,  which  was  always 


3i6  'MISSING' 

sweet  to  her  ear.  c  And  he  has  never  written  ? '  She 
shook  her  head.  '  But  he  would  have  written — in- 
stantly— you  may  be  quite  sure,  if  there  had  been  the 
slightest  clue.' 

*  Oh  yes,  I  know,  I  know,'  she  said  hastily. 

*  Give  me  any  message  for  him  you  like — or  any 
questions  you'd  like  me  to  ask.' 

'  Yes  ' — she  said,  vaguely. 

It  seemed  to  him  she  was  walking  languidly,  and 
he  was  struck  by  her  weary  look.  The  afternoon 
had  turned  windy  and  cold  with  gusts  of  rain.  But 
when  he  suggested  an  immediate  return  to  the  cot- 
tage, Nelly  would  have  none  of  it. 

'  We  were  to  meet  Captain  Marsworth  and  Miss 
Stewart.  Where  are  they?* 

They  emerged  at  the  moment  from  the  cottage 
grounds,  upon  the  high  road;  Farrell  pointed  ahead, 
and  Nelly  saw  Marsworth  and  Miss  Stewart  walk- 
ing fast  up  the  hill  before  them,  and  evidently  in  close 
conversation. 

'  What  can  they  have  to  talk  about  ? '  said  Nelly, 
wondering. 

'  Wouldn't  you  like  to  know! ' 

1  You're  not  going  to  tell  me  ?  ' 

*  Not  a  word.' 

His  eyes  laughed  at  her.  They  walked  on  beside 
each  other,  strangely  content.  And  yet,  with  what 
undercurrents  of  sensitive  and  wounded  conscious- 
ness on  her  side,  of  anxiety  on  his ! 


'MISSING'  317 

At  the  top  of  Red  Bank  they  came  up  with  Mars- 
worth  and  Miss  Stewart.  Nelly's  curiosity  was  more 
piqued  than  ever.  If  all  that  Marsworth  had  said  to 
her  was  true,  why  this  evident  though  suppressed  agi- 
tation on  the  girl's  part,  and  these  shades  of  mystery 
in  the  air?  Daisy  Stewart  was  what  anybody  would 
have  called  '  a  pretty  little  thing.'  She  was  small, 
round-cheeked,  round-eyed,  round-limbed ;  light  upon 
her  feet;  shewing  a  mass  of  brown  hair  brushed 
with  gold  under  her  hat,  and  the  fresh  complexion  of 
a  mountain  maid.  Nelly  guessed  her  age  about  three 
and  twenty,  and  could  not  help  keenly  watching  the 
meeting  between  her  and  Cicely.  She  saw  Cicely 
hold  out  a  limp  hand,  and  the  girl's  timid,  almost 
entreating  eyes. 

But,  the  next  moment,  her  attention  was  diverted 
to  a  figure  slowly  mounting  the  steep  hill  from 
Grasmere,  on  the  top  of  which  the  cottage  party  were 
now  standing,  uncertain  whether  to  push  on  for  their 
walk,  or  to  retreat  homewards  before  the  increasing 
rain.  The  person  approaching  was  Bridget.  As  she 
perceived  her,  Nelly  was  startled  into  quick  recol- 
lection of  Cicely's  remark  of  the  morning — *  Your 
sister  seems  to  have  grown  much  older.'  But  not 
only  older — different!  Nelly  could  not  have  analysed 
her  own  impression,  but  it  was  so  painful  that  she  ran 
down  to  meet  her. 

*  Bridget,  it's  too  far  for  you  to  Grasmere ! — and 
coming  back  up  this  awful  hill!  You  look  quite 


318  c  MISSING' 

done.  Do  go  home  and  lie  down,  or  will  you  come 
to  the  cottage  for  tea  first?  It's  nearer.' 

Bridget  looked  at  her  coldly. 

'Why  do  you  make  such  a  fuss?  I'm  all  right. 
But  I'm  not  coming  to  the  cottage,  thank  you.  I've 
got  things  to  do.' 

The  implication  was  that  everyone  else  was  idle. 
Nelly  drew  back,  rebuffed.  And  as  Bridget  reached 
the  group  at  the  top  of  the  hill  it  was  as  though 
the  rain  and  darkness  suddenly  deepened.  All  talk 
dropped.  Farrell,  indeed,  greeted  her  courteously, 
introduced  her  to  the  Stewarts,  and  asked  her  to 
come  back  to  the  cottage  for  tea.  But  he  was  refused 
as  Nelly  had  been.  Bridget  went  on  her  way  alone 
towards  the  farm.  But  after  parting  from  the  others 
she  turned  back  suddenly  to  say — 

*  There  were  no  letters  for  you,  Nelly.' 

4  What  a  mercy !  '  said  Farrell,  as  Bridget  'dis- 
appeared. '  Don't  you  think  so  ?  I  never  have  any 
forwarded  here.' 

1  Ah,  but  you  get  so  many,'  said  Nelly  wistfully. 
'  But  still,  letters  don't  matter  to  me — now.' 

He  said  nothing,  but  it  roused  in  him  a  kind  of 
fierce  soreness  that  she  would  always  keep  the  past 
so  clearly  before  herself  and  him. 

Violent  rain  came  on,  and  they  hurried  back  to 
the  cottage  for  shelter.  Cicely  was  talking  extrava- 
gantly all  the  time.  She  was  tired  to  death,  she  said, 
of  everything  patriotic.  The  people  who  prattled 
about  nursing,  and  the  people  who  prattled  about 


'MISSING'  319 

the  war — especially  the  people  who  talked  about 
women's  work — were  all  equally  intolerable.  She 
meant  to  give  up  everything  very  soon.  Somebody 
must  amuse  themselves,  or  the  world  would  go  mad. 
Farrell  threw  at  her  some  brotherly  jibes;  the  old 
Rector  looked  scared;  and  Marsworth  said  nothing. 

There  were  bright  fires  in  the  cottage,  and  the 
dripping  walkers  were  glad  to  crowd  round  them ;  all 
except  Cicely  and  Marsworth,  who  seemed  to  Nelly's 
watching  sense  to  be  oddly  like  two  wrestlers  pacing 
round  each  other,  and  watching  the  opportunity  to 
close.  Each  would  take  out  a  book  from  the  shelves 
and  put  it  back,  or  take  up  a  newspaper  from  the 
tables — crossing  repeatedly,  but  never  speaking. 
And  meanwhile  Nelly  also  noticed  that  Daisy 
Stewart,  now  that  Cicely's  close  contact  was  removed, 
was  looking  extraordinarily  pretty.  Radiance,  not 
to  be  concealed,  shone  from  her  charming  childish 
face. 

Suddenly  Marsworth  paused  in  front  of  Cicely, 
intercepting  her  as  she  was  making  for  the 
door. 

4  Would  you  be  an  angel,  Miss  Farrell,  and  help 
me  to  find  a  particular  Turner  drawing  I  want  to 
see?  Willy  says  it's  in  the  studio  somewhere.' 

Cicely  paused,  half  haughty,  half  irresolute. 

1  Willy  knows  his  way  about  the  portfolios  much 
better  than  I  do.' 

Marsworth  came  nearer,  and  leaning  one  hand  on 


320  *  MISSING' 

the  table  between  them,  bent  over  to  her.  He  was 
smiling,  but  there  was  emotion  in  his  look. 

4  Willy  is  looking  after  these  people.  Won't  you  ? ' 

Cicely  considered. 

4  All  right ! '  she  said  carelessly,  at  last,  and  led 
the  way. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  studio  was  empty.  A  wood  fire  burnt  on 
the  wide  hearth,  making  a  pleasant  glow 
in  the  wintry  twilight.  Cicely  seated  her- 
self on  the  end  of  a  sofa,  crossed  her  feet,  and  took 
out  a  cigarette.  But  to  Marsworth's  intense  relief 
she  had  taken  off  the  helmet-like  erection  she  called  a 
hat,  and  her  black  curly  hair  strayed  as  it  pleased 
about  her  brow  and  eyes. 

'  Well  ? '  she  said,  at  last,  looking  at  him  coolly. 
Marsworth  could  not  help  laughing.  He  brought  a 
chair,  and  placed  it  where  he  could  see  her  from 
below,  as  he  lay  back  in  it,  his  hands  behind  his 
head. 

1  Of  course,  you  don't  want  to  look  at  the  port- 
folio,' she  resumed,  '  that  was  your  excuse.  You 
want  to  tell  me  of  your  engagement  to  Miss  Stewart.' 

Marsworth  laughed  again.  Her  ear  caught  what 
seemed  to  be  a  note  of  triumph. 

*  Make  haste,  please! '  she  said,  breathing  quickly. 
*  There  isn't  very  much  time.' 

His  face  changed.  He  sat  up,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

'  Dear  Cicely,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me.' 
But  she  put  her  own  behind  her  back. 

*  Have  you  been  quarrelling  already?    Because  if 

321 


322'  *  MISSING ' 

you  want  me  to  make  it  up,  that  really  isn't  my 
vocation.' 

He  was  silent  a  moment  surveying  hen  Then  he 
said  quietly — 

1 1  want  you  to  help  me.  I  want  you  to  be  kind 
to  that  little  girl.' 

*  Daisy  Stewart?    Thank  you.     But  I've  no  gift 
at  all  for  mothering  babes!     Besides — she'll  now 
have  all  the  advice,  and  all  the  kindness  she  wants.' 

Marsworth's  lips  twitched. 

*  Yes,  that's  true — if  you  and  I  can  help  her  out. 
Cicely! — aren't  you    a   great   friend   of   Sir   John 
Raine?' 

He  named  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Army  Medical 
Department,  a  man  whose  good  word  was  the  mak- 
ing of  any  aspirant  in  the  field  he  ruled. 

Cicely  looked  rather  darkly  at  her  questioner. 

*  What  do  you  mean?  ' 

*  I  want  you  to  help  me  get  an  appointment  for 
somebody.' 

'  For  whom? ' 

'  For  the  man  Daisy  Stewart  wants  to  marry.' 

Cicely  could  not  conceal  her  start. 

4 1  don't  like  being  mystified,'  she  said  coldly. 

Marsworth  allowed  his  smile  to  shew  itself. 

1  I'm  not  trying  to  mystify  you  in  the  least.  Daisy 
Stewart  has  been  engaged  for  nearly  a  year  to  one  of 
the  house-surgeons  in  your  hospital — young  Fellows. 
Nobody  knows  it — not  Willy  even.  It  has  been  kept 
a  dead  secret,  because  that  wicked  old  man  the 


'MISSING'  323 

Rector  won't  have  it.  Daisy  makes  him  comfort- 
able, and  he  won't  give  her  up,  if  he  can  help  it.  And 
as  young  Fellows  has  nothing  but  his  present  pay — 
£160  a  year  with  board  and  lodging — it  seemed 
hopeless.  But  now  he  has  got  his  eye  on  some- 
thing.' 

And  in  a  quiet  business-like  voice  Marsworth  put 
the  case  of  the  penniless  one — his  qualifications,  his 
ambitions,  and  the  particular  post  under  the  Army 
Medical  Board  on  which  he  had  set  his  hopes.  If 
only  somebody  with  influence  would  give  him  a 
leg  up ! 

Cicely  interrupted. 

4  Does  Willy  know?' 

*  No.    You  see,  I  have  come  to  you  first.' 
4  How  long  have  you  known  ?  ' 

1  Since  my  stay  with  them  last  autumn.  I  sus- 
pected something  then,  just  as  I  was  leaving;  and 
Miss  Daisy  confessed — when  I  was  there  in  May. 
Since  then  she  seems  to  have  elected  me  her  chief 
adviser.  But,  of  course,  I  had  no  right  to  tell  any- 
body anything.' 

'  That  is  what  you  like — to  advise  people? ' 

Marsworth  considered  it. 

*  There  was  a  time  ' — he  said,  at  last,  in  a  different 
voice,  '  when  my  advice  used  to  be  asked  by  someone 
else — and  sometimes  taken.' 

Cicely  pretended  to  light  another  cigarette,  but  her 
slim  fingers  shook  a  little. 

*  And  now — you  never  give  it?  ' 


324  *  MISSING ' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  do,'  he  said,  with  sudden  bitterness — 

*  even  unasked.    I'm  always  the  same  old  bore.' 

There  was  silence.  His  right  hand  stole  towards 
her  left  that  was  lying  limply  over  her  knee.  Cicely's 
eyes  looking  down  were  occupied  with  his  disabled 
arm,  which,  although  much  improved,  was  still  glad 
to  slip  into  its  sling  whenever  it  was  not  actively 
wanted. 

But  just  as  he  was  capturing  her,  Cicely  sprang  up. 

*  I  must  go  and  see  about  Sir  John  Raine.' 

1  Cicely — I  don't  care  a  brass  farthing  about  Sir 
John  Raine ! ' 

'  But  having  once  brought  him  in,  I  recommend 
you  to  stick  to  him,'  said  Cicely,  with  teasing  eyes. 

*  And  don't  go  advising  young  women.    It's  not  good 
for  the  military.    I'm  going  to  take  this  business  in 
hand.' 

And  she  made  for  departure,  but  Marsworth  got 
to  the  door  first,  and  put  his  back  against  it. 

'  Find  me  the  Turner,  Cicely.' 

1  A  man  who  asks  for  a  thing  on  false  pretences 
shouldn't  have  it.' 

A  silence.    Then  a  meek  voice  said — 

'  Captain  Marsworth,  my  brother,  Sir  William 
Farrell,  will  be  requiring  my  services  at  tea ! ' 

Marsworth  moved  aside  and  she  forward.  But 
as  she  neared  him,  he  caught  her  passionately  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her.  She  released  herself, 
crimson. 

'  Do  I  like  being  kissed? '  she  said  in  a  low  voice 


'MISSING'  325 

— 'do  I ?  Anyway  don't  do  it  again ! — and  if  you 
dare  to  say  a  word  yet — to  anyone ' 

Her  eyes  threatened;  but  he  saw  in  them  revela- 
tions her  pride  could  not  check,  and  would  have  dis- 
obeyed her  at  once;  but  she  was  too  quick  for  him. 
In  a  second  she  had  opened  the  door  and  was 
gone. 

During  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  her  brother  and 
Nelly  watched  Cicely's  proceedings  with  stupefac- 
tion; only  equalled  by  the  bewilderment  of  Miss 
Daisy  Stewart.  For  that  young  lady  was  promoted 
to  the  good  graces  of  Sir  William's  formidable  sis- 
ter with  a  rapidity  and  completeness  which  only 
natural  good  manners  and  good  sense  could  have 
enabled  her  to  deal  with;  considering  the  icy  exclu- 
sion to  which  she  had  been  so  long  condemned.  But 
as  she  possessed  both,  she  took  it  very  simply;  always 
with  the  same  serene  light  in  her  grey  eyes. 

Marsworth  said  to  himself  presently  that  young 
Fellows'  chances  were  good.  But  in  truth  he  hardly 
remembered  anything  about  them,  except  that  by 
the  help  of  them  he  had  kissed  Cicely !  And  he  had 
yet  to  find  out  what  that  remarkable  fact  was  to 
mean,  either  to  himself  or  to  her.  She  refused  to  let 
him  take  her  back  to  the  farm,  and  she  only  gave  him 
a  finger  in  farewell.  Nor  did  she  say  a  word  of  what 
had  happened,  even  to  Nelly. 

Nelly  spent  again  a  very  wakeful  night.  Farrell 
had  walked  home  with  them,  and  she  understood 
from  him  that,  although  he  was  going  over  early  to 


326  'MISSING' 

Carton  the  following  morning,  he  would  be  at  the 
cottage  again  before  many  days  were  over.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  in  telling  her  so  he  had  looked  at 
her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  implore  her  to  trust 
him.  And  she,  on  hearing  it,  had  been  merely  dumb 
and  irresponsive,  not  forbidding  or  repellent,  as  she 
ought  to  have  been.  The  courage  to  wound  him  to 
the  quick — to  leave  him  bereft,  to  go  out  into  the 
desert  herself,  seemed  to  be  more  and  more  oozing 
away  from  her. 

Yet  there  beside  her  bed,  on  the  table  which  held 
her  Testament,  and  the  few  books — almost  all  given 
her  by  W.  F. — to  which  she  was  wont  to  turn  in  her 
wakeful  hours,  was  George's  photograph  in  uniform. 
About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  lit  her  candle, 
and  lay  looking  at  it,  till  suddenly  she  stretched  out 
her  hand  for  it,  kissed  it  repeatedly,  and  putting  it 
on  her  breast,  clasped  her  hands  over  it,  and  so  fell 
asleep. 

But  before  she  fell  asleep,  she  was  puzzled  by  the 
sounds  in  Bridget's  room  next  door.  Bridget  seemed 
to  be  walking  about — pacing  up  and  down  inces- 
santly. Sometimes  the  steps  would  cease;  only  to 
begin  again  after  a  while  with  the  same  monotony. 
What  could  be  the  matter  with  Bridget?  This  vague 
worry  about  her  sister  entered  into  and  heightened 
all  Nelly's  other  troubles.  Yet  all  the  same,  in  the 
end,  she  fell  asleep;  and  the  westerly  wind  blowing 
over  Wetherlam,  and  chasing  wild  flocks  of  grey 


'MISSING'  327 

rain-clouds  before  him,  found  no  one  awake  in  the 
cottage  or  the  farm  to  listen  to  the  concert  he  was 
making  with  the  fells,  but  Bridget — and  Cicely. 

Bridget  Cookson  had  indeed  some  cause  for  wake- 
fulness.  Locked  away  in  the  old  workbox,  where  she 
kept  the  papers  to  which  she  attached  impor- 
tance, was  a  letter  bearing  the  imprint  *  O.A.S.,' 
which  had  been  delivered  to  her  on  Sunday  after- 
noon by  the  Grasmere  postmistress.  It  ran  as 
follows : 

*  DEAR  Miss  COOKSON, — I  know  of  course  that 
you  are  fully  convinced  the  poor  fellow  we  have  here 
in  charge  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  brother-in- 
iaw.  But  as  you  saw  him,  and  as  the  case  may  throw 
light  on  other  cases  of  a  similar  nature,  I  thought  I 
would  just  let  you  know  that  owing  apparently  to 
the  treatment  we  have  been  carrying  out,  there  are 
some  very  interesting  signs  of  returning  conscious- 
ness since  your  visit,  though  nothing  very  definite  as 
yet.  He  is  terribly  ill,  and  physically  I  see  no  chance 
for  him.  But  I  think  he  may  be  able  to  tell  us  who 
he  is  before  the  end,  in  which  case  I  will  inform  you, 
lest  you  should  now  or  at  any  future  time  feel  the 
smallest  misgiving  as  to  your  own  verdict  in  the  mat- 
ter. This  is  very  unlikely,  I  know,  for  I  under- 
stand you  were  very  decided ;  but  still  as  soon  as  we 
have  definite  information — if  we  get  it — you  may 
wish  to  inform  poor  Mrs.  Sarratt  of  your  journey 


328  'MISSING' 

here.    I  hope  she  is  getting  stronger.    She  did  indeed 
look  very  frail  when  I  saw  her  last. 

*  Yours  very  truly, 

1  ROBERT  HOWSON.' 

Since  the  receipt  of  that  letter  Bridget's  reflections 
had  been  more  disagreeable  than  any  she  had  yet 
grappled  with.  In  Nelly's  company  the  awfulness  of 
what  she  had  done  did  sometimes  smite  home  to  her. 
Well,  she  had  staked  everything  upon  it,  and  the 
only  possible  course  was  to  brazen  it  out.  That 
George  should  die,  and  die  quickly — without  any  re- 
turn of  memory  or  speech,  was  what  she  terribly  and 
passionately  desired.  In  all  probability  he  would  die 
quickly;  he  might  even  now  be  dead.  She  saw  the 
thing  perpetually  as  a  race  between  his  returning 
mind — if  he  still  lived,  and  it  was  returning — and  his 
ebbing  strength.  If  she  had  lived  in  old  Sicilian 
days,  she  would  have  made  a  waxen  image  like  the 
Theocritean  sorceress,  and  put  it  by  the  fire,  that  as 
it  wasted,  so  George  might  waste.  As  it  was,  she 
passed  her  time  during  the  forty-eight  hours  after 
reading  Howson's  letter  in  a  silent  and  murderous 
concentration  on  one  thought  and  wish — George  Sar- 
ratt's  speedy  death. 

What  a  release  indeed  for  everybody! — if  people 
would  only  tell  the  truth,  and  not  dress  up  their  real 
feelings  and  interests  in  stale  sentimentalisms.  Far- 
rell  made  happy  at  no  very  distant  date ;  Nelly  settled 
for  life  with  a  rich  man  who  adored  her;  her  own 


'MISSING*  329 

future  secured — with  the  very  modest  freedom  and 
opportunity  she  craved: — all  this  on  the  one  side — * 
futile  tragedy  and  suffering  on  the  other.  None  the 
less,  there  were  moments  when,  with  a  start,  she 
realised  what  other  people  might  think  of  her  con- 
duct. But  after  all  she  could  always  plead  it  was  a 
mistake — an  honest  mistake.  Are  there  not  con- 
stantly cases  in  the  law  courts,  which  shew  how  easy 
it  is  to  fail  in  identifying  the  right  person,  or  to  per- 
sist in  identifying  the  wrong  one  ? 

During  the  days  before  Farrell  returned,  the  two 
sisters  were  alone  together.  Bridget  would  gladly 
have  gone  away  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  Nelly. 
But  she  did  not  dare  to  leave  the  situation — above 
all,  the  postman — unwatched.  Meanwhile  Nelly 
made  repeated  efforts  to  break  down  the  new  and 
inexplicable  barrier  which  seemed  to  have  arisen  be- 
tween herself  and  Bridget.  Why  would  Bridget 
always  sit  alone  in  that  chilly  outside  room,  which 
even  with  a  large  fire  seemed  to  Nelly  uninhabitable? 
She  tried  to  woo  her  sister,  by  all  the  small  devices 
in  her  power. 

'  Why  won't  you  come  and  sit  with  me  a  bit, 
Bridget?  I'm  so  dull  all  alone!' — she  would  say 
when,  after  luncheon  or  high  tea,  Bridget  showed 
signs  of  immediately  shutting  herself  up  again. 

4 1  can't.    I  must  do  some  work.' 

'  Do  tell  me  what  you're  doing,  Bridget? * 

*  Oh,  you  wouldn't  understand.' 

1  Well,  other  people  don't  always  think  me  a  born 


330  « MISSING ' 

idiot! ' — Nelly  would  say,  not  without  resentment 
*  I  really  could  understand,  Bridget,  if  you'd  try.' 

'  I  haven't  the  time.' 

1  And  you're  killing  yourself  with  so  many  hours 
of  it.  Why  should  you  slave  so?  If  you  only  would 
come  and  help  me  sometimes  with  the  Red  Cross 
work,  I'd  do  any  needlework  for  you,  that  you 
wanted.' 

'  You  know  I  hate  needlework.' 

1  You're  not  doing  anything — not  anything — for 
the  war,  Bridget  1 '  Nelly  would  venture,  wistfully,  at 
last. 

*  There  are  plenty  of  people  to  do  things  for  the 
war.  I  didn't  want  the  war!  Nobody  asked  my 
opinion.' 

And  presently  the  door  would  shut,  and  Nelly 
would  be  left  to  watch  the  torrents  of  rain  outside, 
and  to  endeavour  by  reading  and  drawing,  by  needle- 
work and  the  society  of  her  small  friend  Tommy, 
whenever  she  could  capture  him,  to  get  through  the 
day.  She  pined  for  Hester,  but  Hester  was  doing 
Welfare  work  in  a  munition  factory  at  Leeds,  and 
could  not  be  got  at. 

So  there  she  sat  alone,  brooding  and  planning,  too 
timid  to  talk  to  Bridget  of  her  own  schemes,  and,  in 
her  piteous  indecision,  longing  guiltily  for  Farrell's 
return.  Meanwhile  she  had  written  to  several  ac- 
quaintances who  were  doing  V.A.D.  work  in  various 
voluntary  hospitals,  to  ask  for  information. 

Suddenly,   after  the  rain  came  frost  and  north 


'MISSING'  33i 

wind — finally  snow;  the  beginning  in  the  north  of 
the  fiercest  winter  Western  Europe  has  known  for 
many  years.  Over  heights  and  dales  alike  spread 
the  white  Leveller,  melting  by  day  in  the  valley  bot- 
toms, and  filling  up  his  wastage  by  renewed  falls  at 
night.  Nelly  ventured  out  sometimes  to  look  at  the 
high  glories  of  Wetherlam  and  the  Pikes,  under  occa- 
sional gleams  of  sun.  Bridget  never  put  a  foot  out 
of  doors,  except  when  she  went  to  the  garden  gate  to 
look  for  the  postman  in  the  road,  and  take  the  letters 
from  him. 

At  last,  one  evening,  when  after  a  milder  morning 
a  bitter  blast  from  the  north  springing  up  at  dusk 
had,  once  more,  sent  gusts  of  snow  scudding  over  the 
fells,  Nelly's  listening  ear  heard  the  well-known  step 
at  the  gate.  She  sprang  up  with  a  start  of  joy.  She 
had  been  so  lonely,  so  imprisoned  with  her  own  sad 
thoughts.  The  coming  of  this  kind,  strong  man,  so 
faithful  to  his  small  friend  through  all  the  stress  of 
his  busy  and  important  life,  made  a  sudden  impres- 
sion upon  her,  which  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 
She  thought  of  Carton,  of  its  splendid  buildings,  and 
the  great  hospital  which  now  absorbed  them;  she 
seemed  to  see  Farrell  as  the  king  of  it  all,  the  fame 
of  his  doings  spreading  every  month  over  the  north, 
and  wiping  out  all  that  earlier  conception  of  him  as  a 
dilettante  and  an  idler  of  which  she  had  heard  from 
Hester.  And  yet,  escaping  from  all  that  activity, 
that  power,  that  constant  interest  and  excitement, 
here  he  was,  making  use  of  his  first  spare  hour  to 


332  *  MISSING' 

come  through  the  snow  and  the  dark,  just  to  spend  an 
hour  with  Nelly  Sarratt,  just  to  cheer  her  lonely  little 
life. 

Nelly  ran  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 

'  Is  that  really  you  ? '  she  called,  joyously,  while 
the  snow  drifted  against  her  face. 

Farrell,  carrying  a  lantern,  was  nearing  the  porch. 
The  light  upon  his  face  as  he  turned  shewed  her  his 
look  of  delight. 

Tm  later  than  I  meant,  but  the  roads  are  awful. 
May  I  walk  in?' 

She  ran  down  to  meet  him ;  then  hung  back  rather 
shyly  in  the  passage,  while  he  took  off  his  overcoat 
and  shook  the  snow  from  his  beard. 

1  Have  you  any  visitors  ? '  he  asked,  still  dusting 
away  the  snow. 

'  Only  Bridget.  I  asked  Hester,  but  she  couldn't 
come.' 

He  came  towards  her  along  the  narrow  passage, 
to  the  spot  where  she  stood  tremulous  on  the  lowest 
step  of  the  stairs.  A  lamp  burning  on  a  table  re- 
vealed her  slight  figure  in  black,  the  warm  white  of 
her  throat  and  face,  the  grace  of  the  bending  head, 
and  the  brown  hair  wreathed  about  it.  He  saw  her 
as  an  exquisite  vision  in  a  dim  light  and  shade.  But 
it  was  not  that  which  broke  down  his  self-control  so 
much  as  the  pathetic  look  in  her  dark  eyes,  the  look 
of  one  who  is  glad,  and  yet  shrinks  from  her  own 
gladness — tragically  conscious  of  her  own  weakness, 
and  yet  happy  in  it.  It  touched  his  heart  so  pro- 


'MISSING'  333 

foundly  that  whether  the  effect  was  pain  or  pleasure 
he  could  not  have  told.  But  as  he  reached  the  step, 
moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  he  held  out  his 
arms,  and  she  melted  into  them.  For  one  entrancing 
instant,  he  held  her  close  and  warm  upon  his  breast, 
while  the  world  went  by. 

But  the  next  moment  she  had  slipped  away,  and 
was  sitting  on  the  step,  her  face  in  her  hands. 

He  did  not  plead  or  excuse  himself.  He  just  stood 
by  her  endeavouring  to  still  and  control  his  pulses — 
till  at  last  she  looked  up.  The  lamp  shewed  her  his 
face,  and  the  passion  in  it  terrified  her.  For  there 
had  been  no  passion  in  her  soft  and  sudden  yielding. 
Only  the  instinct  of  the  child  that  is  forsaken  and 
wants  comforting,  that  feels  love  close  to  it,  and 
cannot  refuse  it. 

'  There,  you  see  I '  she  said,  desperately — '  You 
see — I  must  go ! ' 

*  No !  It's  I  who  must  go.  Unless  ' — his  voice 
sank  almost  to  a  whisper — '  Nelly ! — couldn't  you — 
marry  me?  You  should  never,  never  regret  it.' 

She  shook  her  head,  and  as  she  dropped  her  face 
again  in  her  hands  he  saw  a  shudder  run  through 
her.  At  the  sight  his  natural  impulse  was  to  let  pas- 
sion have  its  way,  to  raise  her  in  his  arms  again,  and 
whisper  to  her  there  in  the  dark,  as  love  inspired 
him,  his  cheek  on  hers.  But  he  did  not  venture.  He 
was  well  aware  of  something  intangible  and  incal- 
culable in  Nelly  that  could  not  be  driven.  His  fear 
of  it  held  him  in  check.  He  knew  that  she  was 


334  '  MISSING' 

infinitely  sorry  for  him  and  tender  towards  him. 
But  he  knew  too  that  she  was  not  in  love  with  him. 
Only — he  would  take  his  chance  of  that,  if  only  she 
would  marry  him. 

'  Dear ! '  he  said,  stooping  to  her,  and  touching 
her  dark  curls  with  his  hand.  '  Let's  call  in  Hester ! 
She's  dreadfully  wise !  If  you  were  with  her  I  should 
feel  happy — I  could  wait.  But  it  is  when  I  see  you 
so  lonely  here — and  so  sad — nobody  to  care  for 
you ! — that  I  can't  bear  it ! ' 

Through  the  rush  of  the  wind,  a  sound  of  some- 
one crossing  the  yard  behind  the  farm  came  to 
their  ears.  Nelly  sprang  to  her  feet  and  led  the 
way  upstairs.  Farrell  followed  her,  and  as  they 
moved,  they  heard  Bridget  open  the  back  door  and 
come  in. 

The  little  sitting-room  was  bright  with  lamp  and 
fire,  and  Farrell,  perceiving  that  they  were  no  longer 
to  be  alone,  and  momentarily  expecting  Bridget's 
entrance,  put  impatience  aside  and  began  to  talk  of 
his  drive  from  Carton. 

1  The  wind  on  Dunmail  Raise  was  appalling,  and 
the  lamps  got  so  be-snowed,  we  had  to  be  constantly 
clearing  them.  But  directly  we  got  down  into  the 
valley  it  mended,  and  I  managed  to  stop  at  the  post- 
office,  and  ask  if  there  were  any  letters  for  you. 
There  were  two — and  a  telegram.  What  have  I 
done  with  them  ?  '  He  began  to  search  in  his  pockets, 
his  wits  meanwhile  in  such  a  whirl  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  realise  what  he  was  doing. 


'MISSING'  335 

At  that  point  Bridget  opened  the  door.  He  turned 
to  shake  hands  with  her,  and  then  resumed  his 
fumbling. 

'  I'm  sure  they  did  give  them  to  me ' — he  said, 
in  some  concern, — '  two  letters  and  a  telegram.' 

'A  telegram!'  said  Bridget,  suddenly,  hurrying 
forward, — '  it  must  be  for  me.' 

She  peremptorily  held  out  her  hand,  and  as  she 
did  so,  Nelly  caught  sight  of  her  sister.  Startled  out 
of  all  other  thoughts  she  too  made  a  step  forward. 
What  was  wrong  with  Bridget?  The  tall,  gaunt 
woman  stood  there  livid,  her  eyes  staring  at 
Farrell,  her  hand  unsteady  as  she  thrust  it  towards 
him. 

'  Give  me  the  telegram,  please  1  I  was  expecting 
one,'  she  said,  trying  to  speak  as  usual. 

Farrell  turned  to  her  in  surprise. 

'  But  it  wasn't  for  you,  Miss  Cookson.  It  was  for 
Mrs.  Sarratt.  I  saw  the  address  quite  plainly.  Ah, 
here  they  are.  How  stupid  of  me !  What  on  earth 
made  me  put  them  in  that  pocket.' 

He  drew  out  the  letters  and  the  telegram.  Bridget 
said  again — '  Give  it  me,  please !  I  know  it's  for 
me !  '  And  she  tried  to  snatch  it.  Farrell's  face 
changed.  He  disliked  Bridget  Cookson  heartily, 
mainly  on  Nelly's  account,  and  her  rude  persistence 
nettled  a  temper  accustomed  to  command.  He 
quietly  put  her  aside. 

1  When  your  sister  has  read  it,  Miss  Cookson,  she 
will  no  doubt  let  you  see  it.  As  it  happens,  the  post- 


336  'MISSING' 

mistress  made  me  promise  to  give  it  to  Mrs.  Sarratt 
myself.  She  seemed  interested — I  don't  know  why.' 

Nelly  took  it.  Farrell — who  began  to  have  some 
strange  misgiving — stood  between  her  and  Bridget. 
Bridget  made  no  further  movement.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Nelly. 

Nelly,  bewildered  by  the  little  scene  and  by 
Bridget's  extraordinary  behaviour,  tore  open  the 
brown  envelope,  and  read  slowly — 

*  Please  come  at  once.  Have  some  news  for  you. 
^our  sister  will  explain.  Howson,  Base  Headquar- 
ters, X ,  France.' 

'Howson?'  said  Nelly.  Then  the  colour  began 
to  ebb  from  her  face.  ' Dr.  Howson?  '  she  repeated. 
1  What  news?  What  does  he  mean?  Oh! ' — the  cry 
rang  through  the  room — '  it's  George! — it's  George  I 
he's  found ! — he's  found ! ' 

She  thrust  the  telegram  piteously  into  Farrell's 
hands.  He  read  it,  and  turned  to  Bridget. 

1  What  does  Dr.  Howson  mean,  Miss  Cookson, 
and  why  does  he  refer  Mrs.  Sarratt  to  you?' 

For  some  seconds  she  could  not  make  her  pale  lips 
reply.  Finally,  she  said — 

'  That's  entirely  my  own  affair,  Sir  William.  I 
shall  tell  my  sister,  of  course.  But  Nelly  had  better 
go  at  once,  as  Dr.  Howson  advises.  I'll  go  and  see 
to  things.' 

She  turned  slowly  away.  Nelly  ran  forward  and 
caught  her. 

'  Oh,  Bridget — don't  go — you  mustn't  go !    What 


'MISSING'  337 

news  is  it?  Bridget,  tell  me! — you  couldn't — you 
couldn't  be  so  cruel — not  to  tell  me — if  you  knew 
anything  about  .George  1 ' 

Bridget  stood  silent. 

*  Oh,  what  can  I  do — what  can  I  do  ?  '  cried  Nelly. 

Then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  letters  still  in  her  hand. 
She  tore  one  open — and  read  it — with  mingled  cries 
of  anguish  and  joy.  Farrell  dared  not  go  near 
her.  There  seemed  already  a  gulf  between  her  and 
him. 

'  It's  from  Miss  Eustace ' — she  said,  panting,  as 
she  looked  up  at  last,  and  handed  the  letter  to  him — 
*  it's  George — he's  alive — they've  heard  from  France 
i — he  asks  for  me — but — but — he's  dying.' 

Her  head  dropped  forward  a  little.  She  caught 
at  the  back  of  a  chair,  nearly  fainting.  But  when 
Farrell  approached  her,  she  put  up  a  hand  in  pro- 
test. 

4  No,  no, — I'm  all  right.  But,  Bridget,  Miss  Eus- 
tace says — you've  actually  seen  him — you've  been  to 
France.  When  did  you  go  ?  ' 

'About  three  weeks  ago,'  said  Bridget,  after  a 
moment's  pause.  '  Oh,  of  course  I  know ' — she 
threw  back  her  head  defiantly — '  you'll  all  set  on  me 
— you'll  all  blame  me.  But  I  suppose  I  may  be  mis- 
taken like  anybody  else — mayn't  I?  I  didn't  think 
the  man  I  saw  was  George — I  didn't!  And  what 
was  the  good  of  disturbing  your  mind?' 

But  as  she  told  the  lie,  she  told  it  so  lamely  and 
unconvincingly  that  neither  of  the  other  two  believed 


33$  'MISSING' 

it  for  a  moment.  Nelly  stood  up — tottering — but 
mistress  of  herself.  She  looked  at  Farrell. 

*  Sir  William — can  you  take  me  to  Windermere, 
for  the  night-train?  I  know  when  it  goes — 10.20. 
I'll  be  ready — by  nine.'  She  glanced  at  the  clock, 
which  was  just  nearing  seven. 

(  Of  course,'  said  Farrell,  taking  up  his  hat.  '  I'll 
go  and  see  to  the  motor.  But ' — he  looked  at  her 
with  entreaty — 'you  can't  go  this  long  journey 
alone ! ' 

The  words  implied  a  bitter  consciousness  that  his 
own  escort  was  impossible.  Nelly  did  not  notice  it. 
She  only  said  impatiently — 

'  But,  of  course,  I  must  go  alone.* 

She  stood  silent — mastering  the  agony  within — 
forcing  herself  to  think  and  will.  When  the  pause 
was  over,  she  said  quietly — '  I  will  be  quite  ready 
at  nine.'  And  then  mechanically — '  It's  very  good 
of  you.' 

He  went  away,  passing  Bridget,  who  stood  with 
one  foot  on  the  fender,  staring  down  into  the  fire. 

When  the  outer  door  had  closed  upon  him,  Nelly 
looked  at  her  sister.  She  was  trembling  all  over. 

'Bridget — why  did  you  do  it?'  The  voice  was 
low  and  full  of  horror. 

1  What  do  you  mean?  I  made  a  mistake — that's 
all!' 

'  Bridget — you  knew  it  was  George  I  You  couldn't 
be  mistaken.  Miss  Eustace  says — in  the  letter ' — 
she  pointed  to  it — *  they  asked  you  about  his  hands. 


'MISSING'  339 

Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to  mock  at  them? ' 

1  As  if  one  could  remember  after  a  year  and  a 
half!' 

'  No,  you  couldn't  forget,  Bridget — a  thing  like 
that — I  know  you  couldn't.  And  what  made  you  do 
it !  Did  you  think  I  had  forgotten  George  ?  ' 

At  that  the  tears  streamed  down  her  face,  un- 
heeded. She  approached  her  sister  piteously. 

'  Bridget,  tell  me  what  he  looked  like !  Did  you 
speak  to  him — did  you  see  his  eyes  open?  Oh  my 
poor  George ! — and  I  here — never  thinking  of  him ' 
— she  broke  off  incoherently,  twisting  her  hands. 
*  Miss  Eustace  says  he  was  wounded  in  two  places — 
severely — that  she's  afraid  there's  no  hope.  Did 
they  say  that  to  you,  Bridget — tell  me! — for 
Heaven's  sake  tell  me ! ' 

4  You'll  make  yourself  ill,'  said  Bridget  harshly. 
1  You'd  better  lie  down,  and  let  me  pack  for  you.' 

Nelly  laughed  out. 

*  As  if  I'd  ever  let  you  do  anything  for  me  any 
more !  No,  that's  done  with.  You've  been  so  accus- 
tomed to  manage  me  all  these  years.  You  thought 
you  could  manage  me  now — you  thought  you  could 
let  George  die — and  I  should  never  know — and 
you'd  make  me  marry — William  Farrell.  Bridget — 
/  hate  you! ' 

She  broke  off,  shivering,  but  resumed  almost  at 
once — '  I  see  it  all — I  think  I  see  it  all.  And  now 
it's  all  done  for  between  you  and  me.  If  George 
dies,  I  shall  never  come  back  to  live  with  you  again. 


340  '  MISSING  ' 

You'd  better  make  plans,  Bridget.     It's  over  for 
ever.' 

*  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  now,'  said 
Bridget,  coldly. 

Nelly  did  not  hear  her,  she  was  lost  in  a  whirl  of 
images  and  thoughts.  And  governed  by  them  she 
went  up  to  Bridget  again,  thrusting  her  small  white 
face  under  her  sister's  eyes. 

*  What  sort  of  a  room  was  he  in,  Bridget?    Who 
was  nursing  him?     Are  you  sure  he  didn't  know 
you?     Did  you  call  him  by  his  name?     Did  you 
make  him  understand? ' 

'  He  knew  nobody,'  said  Bridget,  drawing  back, 
against  her  will,  before  the  fire  in  Nelly's  wild  eyes. 
4  He  was  in  a  very  good  room.  There  was  a  nurse 
sitting  with  him.' 

1  Was  he — was  he  very  changed?  ' 

*  Of  course  he  was.    If  not,  I  should  have  known 
him.' 

Nelly  half  smiled.  Bridget  could  never  have 
thought  that  soft  mouth  capable  of  so  much  scorn. 
But  no  words  came.  Then  Nelly  walked  away  to  a 
drawer  where  she  kept  her  accounts,  her  cheque- 
book, and  any  loose  money  she  might  be  in  possession 
of.  She  took  out  her  cheque-book  and  some  two  or 
three  pounds  that  lay  there. 

'  If  you  want  money,  I  can  lend  you  some/  said 
Bridget,  catching  at  the  old  note  of  guardianship. 

*  Thank  you.    But  I  shall  not  want  it.' 

*  Nelly,  don't  be  a  fool  I '  said  Bridget,  stung  at 


^MISSING'  341 

last  into  speech.  *  Suppose  all  you  think  is  true — I 
don't  admit  it,  mind — but  suppose  it's  true.  How 
was  I  doing  such  a  terrible  wrong  to  you? — in  the 
eyes,  I  mean,  of  sensible  people — in  not  disturbing 
your  mind.  Nobody  expected — that  man  I  saw — to 
know  anybody  again — or  to  live  more  than  a  few 
days.  Even  if  I  had  been  certain — and  how  could  I 
be  certain? — wasn't  it  reasonable  to  weigh  one  thing 
against  another?  You  know  very  well — it's  childish 
to  ignore  it — what's  been  going  on  here ' 

But  she  paused.  Nelly,  writing  a  letter,  was  not 
apparently  concerned  with  anything  Bridget  had  been 
saying.  It  did  not  seem  to  have  reached  her  ears. 
A  queer  terror  shot  through  Bridget.  But  she  dis- 
missed it.  As  if  Nelly  could  ever  really  get  on  with- 
out her.  Little,  feckless,  sentimental  thing! 

Nelly  finished  her  letter  and  put  it  up. 

1 1  have  written  to  Sir  William's  agent,  Bridget ' — 
she  said  turning  towards  her  sister — *  to  say  that  I 
give  up  the  farm.  I  shall  pay  the  servant.  Hester 
will  look  after  my  things,  and  send  them — when  I 
want  them.' 

'Why  Hester?'  said  Bridget,  with  something  of 
a  sneer. 

Nelly  did  not  answer.  She  put  up  her  letter,  took 
the  money  and  the  cheque-book  and  went  out  of  the 
room.  Bridget  heard  her  call  their  one  servant,  Mrs. 
Dowson,  and  presently  steps  ascended  the  stairs  and 
Nelly's  door  shut.  The  sound  of  the  shutting  door 
roused  in  her  again  that  avenging  terror.  Her  first 


342  *  MISSING ' 

impulse  was  to  go  and  force  herself  into  Nelly's 
room,  so  as  to  manage  and  pack  for  her  as  usual. 
But  something  stopped  her.  She  consoled  herself  by 
going  down  to  the  kitchen  to  look  after  the  supper. 
Nelly,  of  course,  must  have  some  food  before  her 
night  journey. 

Behind  that  shut  door,  Nelly  was  looking  into  the 
kind  weather-beaten  face  of  Mrs.  Dowson. 

*  Mrs.  Dowson,  I'm  going  away  to-night — and  I'm 
not  coming  back.     Sir  William  knows.' 

Then  she  caught  the  woman's  gnarled  hands,  and 
her  own  features  began  to  work. 

'  Mrs.  Dowson,  they've  found  my  husband!  Did 
Sir  William  tell  you  ?  He's  not  dead — he's  alive — \ 
But  he's  very,  very  ill.1 

*  Oh,  you  poor  lamb ! '  cried  Mrs.  Dowson.    '  No 
— Sir  William  tellt  me  nowt.    The  Lord  be  gracious 
to  you  I '    Bathed  in  sudden  tears,  she  kissed  one  of 
the  hands  that  held  hers,  pouring  out  incoherent 
words  of  hope.    But  Nelly  did  not  cry,  and  presently 
she  said  firmly — 

*  Now,  please,  you  must  help  me  to  pack.     Sir 
William  will  be  here  at  nine.' 

Presently  all  was  ready.  Nelly  had  hunted  out  an 
old  grey  travelling  dress  in  which  George  had  often 
seen  her,  and  a  grey  hat  with  a  veil.  She  hastily  put 
all  her  black  clothes  aside. 

*  Miss  Martin  will  send  me  anything  I  want.     I 
have  asked  her  to  come  and  fetch  my  things.' 

*  But  Miss  Cookson  will  be  seein'  to  that !  '  said 


'MISSING'  343 

Mrs.  Dowson  wondering.  Nelly  made  no  reply. 
She  locked  her  little  box,  and  then  stood  upright, 
looking  round  the  small  room.  She  seemed  to  be  say- 
ing '  Good-bye  '  for  ever  to  the  Nelly  who  had  lived, 
and  dreamed,  and  prayed  there.  She  was  going  to 
George — that  was  all  she  knew. 

Downstairs,  Bridget  was  standing  at  the  door  of 
the  little  dining-room.  *  I  have  put  out  some  cold 
meat  for  you,'  she  said,  stiffly.  *  .You  won't  get  any- 
thing for  a  long  time.' 

Nelly  acquiesced.  She  drank  some  tea,  and  ate  as 
much  as  she  could.  Neither  she  nor  Bridget  spoke, 
till  Bridget,  who  was  at  the  window  looking  out 
into  the  snow,  turned  round  to  say — *  Here's  the 
motor.' 

Nelly  rose,  and  tied  her  veil  on  closely.  Mrs. 
Dowson  brought  her  a  thick  coat,  which  had  been 
part  of  her  trousseau,  and  wrapped  her  in  it. 

*  You   had  better  take  your  grey  shawl,'   said 
Bridget. 

'  I  have  it  here,  Miss,'  said  Mrs.  Dowson,  produc- 
ing it.  '  I'll  put  it  over  her  in  the  motor.' 

She  disappeared  to  open  the  door  to  Sir  William's 
knock. 

Nelly  turned  to  her  sister. 

'  Good-bye,  Bridget.' 

Bridget  flamed  out. 

*  And  you  don't  mean  to  write  to  me?    You  mean 
to  carry  out  this  absurd  plan  of  separation ! ' 

1 1  don't  know  what  I  shall  do — till  I  have  seen 


344  '  MISSING  ' 

George,'  said  Nelly  steadily.  *  He'll  settle  for  me. 
Only  you  and  I  are  not  sisters  any  more.' 

Bridget  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  some  angry 
remark  about  '  theatrical  nonsense.'  Nelly  went  out 
into  the  passage,  threw  her  arms  about  Mrs.  Dow- 
son's  neck,  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurried  out 
towards  the  car.  It  stood  there  in  the  falling  snow, 
its  bright  lights  blazing  on  the  bit  of  Westmorland 
wall  opposite,  and  the  overhanging  oaks,  still  heavy 
with  dead  leaf.  Farrell  was  standing  at  the  door, 
holding  a  fur  rug.  He  and  Mrs.  Dowson  tucked  it 
in  round  Nelly's  small  cloaked  figure. 

Then  without  a  word,  Farrell  shut  the  door  of  the 
car,  and  took  the  seat  beside  the  driver.  In  another 
minute  Bridget  was  watching  the  lights  of  the  lamps 
rushing  along  the  sides  of  the  lane,  till  at  a  sharp 
bend  of  the  road  it  disappeared. 

There  was  a  break  presently  in  the  snow-fall,  and 
as  they  reached  the  shores  of  Windermere,  Nelly 
was  aware  of  struggling  gleams  of  moonlight  on 
steely  water.  The  anguish  in  her  soul  almost  re- 
sented the  break  in  the  darkness.  She  was  going  to 
George;  but  George  was  dying,  and  while  he  had 
been  lying  there  in  his  lonely  suffering,  she  had  been 
forgetting  him,  and  betraying  him.  The  recollection 
of  Farrell's  embrace  overwhelmed  her  with  a  crush- 
ing sense  of  guilt.  George  indeed  should  never 
know.  But  that  made  no  difference  to  her  own 
misery. 

The  miles  flew  by.     She  began  to  think  of  her 


'MISSING' 

journey,  to  realise  her  helplessness  and  inexperience 
in  the  practical  things  of  life.  She  must  get  her  pass- 
port, and  some  money.  Who  would  advise  her,  and 
tell  her  how  to  get  to  France  under  war  conditions  ? 
Would  she  be  allowed  to  go  by  the  short  sea  pas- 
sage ?  For  that  she  knew  a  special  permit  was  neces- 
sary. Could  she  get  it  at  once,  or  would  she  be  kept 
waiting  in  town?  The  notion  of  having  to  wait  one 
unnecessary  hour  tortured  her.  Then  her  thoughts 
fastened  on  Miss  Eustace  of  the  Enquiry  Of£cer  who 
had  written  her  the  letter  which  had  arrived  simul- 
taneously with  Dr.  PJowson's  telegram.  '  Let  me 
know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  for  your  journey. 
If  there  is  anything  you  want  to  know  that  we  can 
help  you  in,  you  had  better  come  straight  to  this 
office.' 

Yes,  that  she  would  do.  But  the  train  arrived  in 
London  at  7  A.M.  And  she  could  not  possibly  see 
Miss  Eustace  before  ten  or  eleven.  She  must  just 
sit  in  the  waiting-room  till  it  was  time.  And  she 
must  get  some  money.  She  had  her  cheque-book  and 
would  ask  Sir  William  to  tell  her  how  to  get  a  cheque 
cashed  in  London.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  own 
ignorance  in  these  small  practical  matters. 

The  motor  stopped.  Sir  William  jumped  down, 
but  before  he  came  to  open  the  door  for  her,  she  saw 
him  turn  round  and  wave  his  hand  to  two  persons 
standing  outside  the  station.  They  hurried  towards 
the  motor,  and  as  Nelly  stepped  down  from  it,  she 
felt  herself  grasped  by  eager  hands. 


346  '•  MISSING ' 

*  You  poor  darling!    I  thought  we  couldn't  be  in 
time.     But  we  flew.     Don't  trouble  about  anything. 
We've  done  it  all.1 

Cicely ! — and  behind  her  Marsworth. 
Nelly  drew  back. 

*  Dear  Cicely  1 '  she  said  faintly — '  but  I  can  man- 
age— I  can  manage  quite  well.' 

Resistance,  however,  was  useless.  Marsworth  and 
Cicely,  it  seemed,  were  going  to  London  with  her — 
Cicely  probably  to  France;  and  Marsworth  had  al- 
ready telegraphed  about  her  passport.  She  would 
have  gladly  gone  by  herself,  but  she  finally  sur- 
rendered— for  George's  sake,  that  she  might  get  to 
him  the  quicker. 

Then  everything  was  done  for  her.  Amid  the 
bustle  of  the  departing  train,  she  was  piteously  aware 
of  Farrell,  and  just  before  they  started,  she  leant  out 
to  give  him  her  hand. 

'  I  will  tell  George  all  you  have  done  for  me,'  she 
said,  gulping  down  a  sob. 

He  pressed  her  hand  before  releasing  it,  but  said 
nothing.  What  was  there  to  say?  Meanwhile, 
Cicely,  to  ease  the  situation,  was  chattering  hard, 
describing  how  Farrell  had  sent  his  chauffeur  to 
Ambleside  on  a  motor  bicycle,  immediately  after 
leaving  Nelly,  and  so  had  got  a  telephone  message 
through  to  Cicely. 

4  We  had  the  small  car  out  and  ready  in  ten  min- 
utes, and,  by  good  luck,  there  was  a  motor-transport 
man  on  leave,  who  had  come  to  see  a  brother  in  the 


'MISSING'  347 

hospital.  We  laid  hands  on  him,  and  he  drove  us 
here.  But  it's  a  mercy  we're  not  sitting  on  the  Raise ! 
You  remember  that  heap  of  stones  on  the  top  of  the 
Raise,  that  thing  they  say  is  a  barrow — the  grave  of 
some  old  British  party  before  the  Flood? — well, 
the  motor  gave  out  there !  Herbert  and  the  chauf- 
feur sat  under  it  in  the  snow  and  worked  at  it.  I 
thought  the  river  was  coming  over  the  road,  and 
that  the  wind  would  blow  us  all  away.  But  it'll  be 
all  right  for  your  crossing  to-morrow — the  storm 
will  have  quite  gone  down.  Herbert  thinks  you'll 
start  about  twelve  o'clock, — and  you'll  be  at  the 
camp  that  same  night.  Oh,  isn't  it  wonderful! — * 
isn't  it  ripping?'  cried  Cicely  under  her  breath, 
stooping  down  to  kiss  Nelly,  while  the  two  men 
talked  at  the  carriage  window. — *  You're  going  to 
get  him  home !  We'll  have  the  best  men  in  London 
to  look  after  him.  He'll  pull  through,  you'll  see — 
he'll  pull  through!' 

Nelly  sank  into  a  seat  and  closed  her  eyes.  Cicely's 
talk — why  did  she  call  Marsworth  '  Herbert '  ? — • 
was  almost  unbearable  to  her.  She  knew  through 
every  vein  that  she  was  going  across  the  Channel — 
to  see  George  die.  If  only  she  were  in  time ! — if 
only  she  might  hold  him  in  her  arms  once  more! 
Would  the  train  never  go? 

Farrell,  in  spite  of  snow  and  storm,  pushed  his 
way  back  to  Carton  that  night.  In  that  long  motor 
drive  a  man  took  counsel  with  himself  on  whom  the 


348  *  MISSING ' 

war  had  laid  a  chastening  and  refining  hand.  The 
human  personality  cannot  spend  itself  on  tasks  of 
pity  and  service  without  taking  the  colour  of  them, 
without  rising  insensibly  to  the  height  of  them.  They 
may  have  been  carelessly  adopted,  or  imposed  from 
without.  But  the  mere  doing  of  them  exalts.  As 
the  dyer's  hand  is  *  subdued  to  what  it  works  in,'  so- 
the  man  that  is  always  about  some  generous  business 
for  his  fellow-men  suffers  thereby,  insensibly,  a 
change,  which  is  part  of  the  *  heavenly  alchemy '  for 
ever  alive  in  the  world.  It  was  so  at  any  rate  with 
William  Farrell.  The  two  years  of  his  hospital  work 
— hard,  honest  grappling  with  the  problems  of 
human  pain  and  its  relief — had  made  a  far  nobler 
man  of  him.  So  now,  in  this  solitary  hour,  he  looked 
his  trouble — courageously,  chivalrously — in  the  face. 
The  crash  of  all  his  immediate  hopes  was  bitter  in- 
deed. What  matter !  Let  him  think  only  of  those 
two  poor  things  about  to  meet  in  France. 

As  to  the  future,  Jta  was  well  awa^e_gLthe_ernjO- 
tional  "depths  in  Nelly's  nature.  _Geor^e_Sairatt's 
claim  upon  her  life  and  memory. wouLLnow  be  dou- 
bly  strong.  For,  with  that  long  _and  intinrat£_oh££r- 
vation  of  the  war  which  his  hospital  experience  had 
brought  him,  Farrell  was  keenly  aware  of  the  merci- 
ful fact  that  the  mere  distance  which,  generally 
speaking,  the  war  imposes  between  the  man  dying 
on  the  battle-field  and  those  who  love  him  at  home, 
inevitably  breaks  the  blow.  The  nerves  of  the 
woman  who  loses  her  husband  or  her  son  are,  at 


'MISSING'  349 

least,  not  tortured  by  the  actual  sight  of  his  wounds 
and  death.  The  suffering  is  spiritual,  and  the  tender 
benumbing  touch  of  religion  or  patriotism,  or  the 
remaining  affections  of  life,  has  less  to  fight  with 
than  when  the  physical  senses  themselves  are  rackect 
with  acute  memories  of  bodily  wounds  and  bodily 
death.  It  is  not  that  sorrow  is  less  deep,  or  memory 
less  tenacious;  but  both  are  less  ruinous  to  the  per- 
son sorrowing.  So,  at  least,  Farrell  had  often  seen 
it,  among  even  the  most  loving  and  passionate  of 
women.  Nelly's  renascence  in  the  quiet  Westmor- 
land life  had  been  a  fresh  instance  of  it;  and  he 
had  good  reason  for  thinking  that,  but  for  the  tragic 
reappearance  of  George  Sarratt,  it  would  not  have 
taken  very  long, — a  few  months  more,  perhaps — 
before  she  would  have  been  persuaded  to  let  herself 
love,  and  be  loved  again. 

But  now,  every  fibre  in  her  delicate  being — 
physical  and  spiritual — would  be  racked  by  the  sight 
of  Sarratt's  suffering  and  death.  And  no  doubt — 
pure,  scrupulous  little  soul! — she  would  be  tor- 
mented by  the  thought  of  what  had  just  passed 
between  herself  and  him,  before  the  news  from 
France  arrived.  He  might  as  well  look  that  in  the 
face. 

Well ! — patience  and  time — there  was  nothing 
else  to  look  to.  He  braced  himself  to  both,  as  he 
sped  homeward  through  the  high  snowy  roads,  and 
dropped  through  sleeping  Keswick  to  Bassenthwaite 
and  Carton.  Then  with  the  sight  of  the  hospital, 


3so  'MISSING' 

the  Red  Cross  flag  drooping  above  its  doorway,  as 
he  drove  up  to  it,  the  burden  and  interest  of  his 
great  responsibilities  returned  upon  him.  He 
jumped  out  to  say  a  few  cheery  words  of  thanks  to 
his  chauffeur,  and  went  on  with  a  rapid  step  to  his 
office  on  the  ground  floor,  where  he  found  important 
letters  and  telegrams  awaiting  him.  He  dealt  with 
them  till  far  into  the  night.  But  the  thought  of 
Nelly  never  really  left  him;  nor  that  haunting 
physical  memory  of  her  soft  head  upon  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OF  the  weary  hours  which  intervened  between 
her  meeting  with  Cicely  and  Marsworth  at 
Windermere  station  and  her  sight  of  Dr. 
Howson  on  the  rain-beaten  quay  at  Bolougne,  Nelly 
Sarratt  could  afterwards  have  given  no  clear  ac- 
count. Of  all  the  strings  that  were  pulled,  and  the 
exalted  persons  invoked,  in  order  to  place  her  as 
quickly  as  possible  by  the  side  of  her  dying  husband, 
she  knew  practically  nothing.  Cicely  and  Mars- 
worth,  with  Farrell  to  help  them  at  the  other  end 
of  a  telegraph  wire,  did  everything.  Passports 
and  special  permits  were  available  in  a  minimum 
of  time.  In  the  winter  dawn  at  Euston  Station, 
there  was  the  grey-headed  Miss  Eustace  waiting; 
and  two  famous  Army  doctors  journeyed  to  Char- 
ing Cross  a  few  hours  later,  on  purpose  to  warn  the 
wife  of  the  condition  in  which  she  was  likely  to 
find  her  husband,  and  to  give  her  kindly  advice  as  to 
how  she  could  help  him  most.  The  case  had  al- 
ready made  a  sensation  at  the  Army  Medical  Head- 
quarters; the  reports  on  it  from  France  were  being 
eagerly  followed;  and  when  the  young  wife  ap- 
peared from  the  north,  her  pathetic  beauty  quick- 
ened the  general  sympathy.  Nelly's  path  to  France 
351 


35*  '  MISSING ' 

was  smoothed  in  every  possible  way.  No  Royalty 
could  have  been  more  anxiously  thought  for. 

But  she  herself  realised  scarcely  anything  about 
it.  It  was  her  nature  to  be  grateful,  sweet,  respon- 
sive; but  her  gratitude  and  her  sweetness  during 
these  hours  were  automatic,  unconscious.  She  was 
the  spectator,  so  to  speak,  of  a  moving  picture  which 
carried  her  on  with  it,  in  which  she  was  merely 
passive.  The  crowded  boat,  the  grey  misty  sea,  the 
destroyers  to  right  and  left,  she  was  aware  of  them 
in  one  connection  only — as  part  of  the  process  by 
which  she  and  George  were  to  meet  again. 

But  at  last  the  boat  was  alongside  the  quays  of 
the  French  port,  and  through  sheets  of  rain  she 
saw  the  lights  of  a  climbing  town,  and  the  gleaming 
roadways  of  the  docks.  Crowds  of  men  in  khaki; 
a  park  of  big  guns,  their  wet  nozzles  glittering 
under  the  electric  lamps  overhead;  hundreds  of 
tethered  horses;  a  long  line  of  motor  lorries; — the 
scene  to  her  was  all  a  vague  confusion,  as  Cicely, 
efficient  and  masterful  as  usual,  made  a  way  for 
them  both  along  the  deck  of  the  steamer  through 
close  ranks  of  soldiers — a  draft  waiting  their  orders 
to  disembark.  Then  as  they  stepped  on  land,  per- 
ception sharpened  in  a  moment.  A  tall  man  in 
khaki — whom  she  recognised  as  Dr.  Howson — 
came  eagerly  forward. 

'Mrs.  Sarratt! — I  hope  you're  not  too  tired. 
Would  you  rather  get  some  food  here,  in  the  town, 
or  push  on  at  once  ?  ' 


'MISSING'  353 

*  At  once,  please.    How  is  he?  ' 

A  pair  of  kind  grey  eyes  looked  down  upon  her 


'  Very  ill,  very  ill ! — but  quite  sensible.  I  know 
you  will  be  brave.' 

He  carried  her  along  the  quay — while  Cicely  was 
taken  possession  of  by  a  nurse  in  uniform,  who 
talked  rapidly  in  an  undertone. 

*  I  have  two  cars,'  said  Howson  to  Nelly — '  You 
and  I  will  go  first.    Our  head  Sister,  Miss  Parrish, 
who  has  been  in  charge  of  the  case  for  so  long,  will 
bring  Miss  Farrell.' 

And  as  they  reached  the  two  waiting  motors, 
Nelly  found  her  hand  grasped  by  a  comely  elderly 
woman,  in  a  uniform  of  grey  and  red. 

'  He  was  quite  comfortable  when  we  left  him, 
Mrs.  Sarratt.  There's  a  wonderful  difference,  even 
since  yesterday,  in  his  mind.  He's  beginning  to 
remember  everything.  He  knows  you're  coming. 
He  said — "  Give  her  my  dear  love,  and  tell  her  I'm 
not  going  to  have  my  supper  till  she  comes.  She 
shall  give  it  me."  Think  of  that  I  It's  like  a 
miracle.  Three  weeks  ago,  he  never  spoke,  he 
knew  nobody.' 

Nelly's  white  face  trembled,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Howson  put  her  into  the  foremost  car,  and  they 
were  soon  off,  threading  their  way  through  the  busy 
streets  of  the  base,  while  the  Sister  followed  with 
Cicely. 

*  Oh,  it  was  cruel  not  to  let  Mrs.  Sarratt  know 


354  'MISSING' 

earlier ! '  said  the  Sister  indignantly,  in  answer  to  a 
hurried  question  from  Cicely  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone.  *  She  might  have  had  three  weeks  with  him, 
and  now  there  can  only  be  a  day  or  two.  What 
was  Miss  Cookson  about?  Even  if  she  were  just 
mistaken,  she  might  at  least  have  brought  her  sister 
over  to  see  for  herself — instead  of  preventing  it  by 
every  means  in  her  power.  A  most  extraordinary 
woman ! ' 

Cicely  felt  her  way  in  reply.  She  really  knew 
nothing  except  what  Farrell  had  been  able  hurriedly 
to  say  to  Marsworth  at  Windermere  station — which 
had  been  afterwards  handed  on  to  her.  Farrell  him- 
self was  entirely  mystified.  '  The  only  motive  I  can 
suggest ' — he  had  said  to  Marsworth — '  is  that  Miss 
Cookson  had  an  insane  dislike  of  her  brother-in-law. 
But,  even  so,  why  did  she  do  it  ? ' 

Why,  indeed?  Cicely  now  heard  the  whole  story 
from  her  companion;  and  her  shrewd  mind  very 
soon  began  to  guess  at  reasons.  She  had  always  ob- 
served Bridget's  complaisance  towards  her  brother, 
and  even  towards  herself — a  clumsy  complaisance 
which  had  never  appealed  at  all  either  to  her  or 
him.  And  she  had  noticed  many  small  traits  and 
incidents  that  seemed  to  shew  that  Bridget  had  re- 
sented her  sister's  marriage,  and  felt  bitterly  that 
Nelly  might  have  done  far  better  for  herself.  Also 
that  there  was  a  strong  taste  for  personal  luxury  in 
Bridget,  which  seemed  entirely  lacking  in  Nelly. 

*  She  wanted  Willy's  money !  ' — thought  Cicely — 


'MISSING'  355 

1  and  couldn't  get  it  for  herself.  So  when  poor  Sar- 
ratt  disappeared,  she  saw  a  way  of  getting  it  through 
Nelly.  Not  a  bad  idea ! — if  you  are  to  have 
ideas  of  that  kind.  But  then,  why  behave  like 
an  idiot  when  Providence  had  done  the  thing  for 
you?' 

That  was  really  the  puzzle.  George  Sarratt  was 
dying.  Why  not  let  poor  Nelly  have  her  last  weeks 
with  him  in  peace,  and  then — in  time — marry  her 
safely  and  lawfully  to  Willy? 

But  Cicely  had  again  some  inkling  of  Bridget's 
probable  reply.  She  had  not  been  intimate  with 
Nelly  for  more  than  a  year  without  realising  that 
she  was  one  of  those  creatures — so  rare  in  our  mod- 
ern world — who  do  in  truth  live  and  die  by  their 
affections.  The  disappearance  of  her  husband  had 
very  nearly  killed  her.  In  the  first  winter  after  he 
was  finally  reported  as  '  Missing — believed  killed,' 
and  when  she  had  really  abandoned  hope,  the  slight- 
est accident — a  bad  chill — an  attack  of  childish 
illness — any  further  shock — might  have  slit  the  thin- 
spun  life  in  a  few  days  or  weeks.  The  Torquay 
doctor  had  told  Hester  that  she  was  on  the  brink  of 
tuberculosis,  and  if  she  were  exposed  to  infection 
would  certainly  develop  it.  Since  then  she  had 
gained  greatly  in  vitality  and  strength.  If  only  Fate 
had  left  her  alone !  '  With  happiness  and  Willy, 
she'd  have  been  all  right !  '  thought  Cicely,  who  was 
daily  accustomed  to  watch  the  effect  of  mind  on  body 
in  her  brother's  hospital.  But  now,  with  this  fresh 


356  *  MISSING' 

and  deeper  tragedy  before  her — tearing  at  the  poor 
little  heart — crushing  the  life  again  out  of  the  frail 
being — why,  the  prospects  of  a  happy  ending  were 
decidedly  less.  The  odious  Bridget  might  after  all 
have  acted  intelligibly,  though  abominably. 

As  to  the  history  of  Sarratt' s  long  disappearance, 
Cicely  found  that  very  little  was  known. 

'  We  don't  question  him,'  said  the  Sister.  *  It  only 
exhausts  him;  and  it  wouldn't  be  any  good.  He 
may  tell  his  wife  something  more,  of  his  own  accord, 
but  we  doubt  whether  he  knows  much  more  than  he 
told  Dr.  Howson.  He  remembers  being  wounded  at 
Loos — lying  out  undiscovered,  he  thinks  for  two 
days — then  a  German  hospital — and  a  long,  long 
journey.  And  that's  practically  all.  But  just  lately 
— this  week,  actually!- — Dr.  Howson  has  got  some 
information,  through  a  family  of  peasants  living  near 
Cassel,  behind  the  British  lines.  They  have  rela- 
tions across  the  Belgian  border,  and  gradually  they 
have  discovered  who  the  man  was  who  came  over  the 
frontier  with  Mr.  Sarratt.  He  came  from  a  farm, 
somwhere  between  Brussels  and  Courtrai,  and  now 
they've  managed  to  get  a  letter  through  from  his 
brother.  You  know  the  man  himself  was  shot  just  as 
they  reached  the  British  lines.  But  this  letter  really 
tells  a  good  deal.  The  brother  says  that  they  found 
Mr.  Sarratt  almost  dead, — and,  as  they  thought,  in- 
sane— in  a  wood  near  their  house.  He  was  then 
wearing  the  uniform  of  a  British  officer.  They 
guessed  he  was  an  escaped  prisoner,  and  they  took 


'MISSING'  357 

him  in  and  hid  him.  Then  news  filtered  through  to 
them  of  two  English  officers  who  had  made  their 
escape  from  a  hospital  train  somewhere  south-west 
of  Brussels;  one  slightly  wounded,  and  one  severely; 
the  severely  wounded  man  suffering  also  from  shell- 
shock.  And  the  slightly  wounded  man  was  shot, 
while  the  other  escaped.  The  train,  it  was  said,  was 
lying  in  a  siding  at  the  time — at  the  further  edge  of 
the  forest  bordering  their  farm.  So,  of  course,  they 
identified  the  man  discovered  by  them  as  the  severely 
wounded  officer.  Mr.  Sarratt  must  have  somehow 
just  struggled  through  to  their  side  of  the  forest, 
where  they  found  him. 

'  What  happened  then,  we  can't  exactly  trace.  He 
must  have  been  there  all  the  winter.  He  was  deaf 
and  dumb,  from  nerve-shock,  and  could  give  no 
accounrrof  himself  at  all.  The  men  of  the  farm,  two 
unmarried  sons,  were  good  to  him,  but  their  old 
mother,  whose  family  was  German,  always  hated  his 
being  there.  She  was  in  terror  of  the  German  mili- 
tary police  who  used  to  ride  over  the  farm,  and  one 
day,  when  her  sons  were  away,  she  took  Mr.  Sar- 
ratt's  uniform,  his  identification  disk,  and  all  the 
personal  belongings  she  could  find,  and  either  burned 
or  buried  them.  The  sons,  who  were  patriotic  Bel- 
gians, were  however  determined  to  protect  him, 
and  no  doubt  there  may  have  been  some  idea  of  a 
reward,  if  they  could  find  his  friends.  But  they  were 
afraid  of  their  tyrannical  old  mother,  and  of  what 
she  might  do.  So  at  last  they  made  up  their  minds 


358  'MISSING' 

to  try  somehow  and  get  him  over  the  French  frontier, 
which  was  not  far  off,  and  through  the  German 
lines.  One  of  the  brothers,  whose  name  was  Benoit 
Desalles,  to  whom  they  say  poor  Mr.  Sarratt  was 
much  attached,  went  with  him.  They  must  have  had 
an  awful  time,  walking  by  night,  and  hiding  by  day. 
Mr.  Sarratt's  wounds  must  have  been  in  a  bad  state, 
for  they  were  only  half  healed  when  he  escaped,  and 
they  had  been  neglected  all  the  winter.  So  how  he 
dragged  himself  the  distance  he  did,  the  doctors  can't 
imagine.  And  the  peasants  near  the  frontier  from 
whom  we  have  got  what  information  we  have,  have 
no  knowledge  at  all  of  how  he  and  his  Belgian  guide 
finally  got  through  the  German  lines.  But  when  they 
reached  our  lines,  they  were  both,  as  Dr.  Howson 
wrote  to  Miss  Cookson,  in  German  uniforms.  His 
people  suppose  that  Benoit  had  stripped  some  Ger- 
man dead,  and  that  in  the  confusion  caused  in  the 
German  line — at  a  point  where  it  ran  through  a 
Belgian  village — by  a  British  raid,  at  night,  they 
got  across  the  enemy  trenches.  And  no  doubt  Benoit 
had  local  knowledge  which  helped. 

1  Then  in  the  No  Man's  Land,  between  the  lines, 
they  were  under  both  shell  and  rifle-fire,  till  it  was 
seen  by  our  men  that  Benoit  had  his  hands  up,  and 
that  the  other  was  wounded.  The  poor  Belgian  was 
dragging  Mr.  Sarratt  who  was  unconscious,  and  at 
last — wasn't  it  ill-luck? — just  as  our  men  were  pull- 
ing them  into  the  trench,  Benoit  was  shot  through  the 
head  by  a  German  sniper.  That,  at  least,  is  how  we 


'MISSING'  359 

now  reconstruct  the  story.  As  far  as  Mr.  Sarratt 
is  concerned,  we  let  it  alone.  We  have  no  heart  to 
worry  him.  Poor  fellow — poor,  gallant,  patient 
fellow!' 

And  the  Sister's  strong  face  softened,  as  Bridget 
had  seen  it  soften  at  Sarratt's  bedside. 

'And  there  is  really  no  hope  for  him?'  asked 
Cicely  after  a  time.  The  Sister  shook  her  head. 

4  The  wounds  have  never  healed — and  they  drain 
his  life  away.  The  heart  can't  last  out  much  longer. 
But  he's  not  in  pain  now — thank  God!  It's  just 
weakness.  I  assure  you,  everybody — almost — in  this 
huge  camp,  asks  for  him  and  many — pray  for  him.' 
The  Sister's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  And  now  that 
the  poor  wife's  come  in  time,  there'll  be  an  excite- 
ment !  I  heard  two  men  in  one  of  our  wards  discuss- 
ing it  this  morning.  "  They  do  say  as  Mrs.  Sarratt 
will  be  here  to-day,"  said  one  of  them.  "  Well,  that's 
a  bit  of  all  right,  ain't  it?  "  said  the  other,  and  they 
both  smoked  away,  looking  as  pleased  as  Punch. 
You  see  Miss  Cookson's  behaviour  has  made  the 
whole  thing  so  extraordinary.' 

Cicely  agreed. 

'  I  suppose  she  thought  it  would  be  all  over  in  a 
day  or  two,'  she  said,  half-absently. 

The  Sister  looked  puzzled. 

'  And  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  risk  the  effect 
on  his  wife?  Of  course  Mrs.  Sarratt  does  look 
dreadfully  delicate.  So  you  don't  think  it  was  a  mis- 
take? It's  very  difficult  to  see  how  it  could  be !  The 


360  *  MISSING ' 

hands  alone — one  would  think  that  anybody  who 
really  knew  him  must  have  recognised  them.' 

Cicely  said  no  more.  But  she  wondered  how 
poor  Nelly  and  her  sister  would  ever  find  it  possible 
to  meet  again. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  car  ahead,  Howson  was  gently 
and  tenderly  preparing  the  mind  of  Nelly  for  her 
husband's  state.  He  described  to  her  also,  the  first 
signs  of  Sarratt's  returning  consciousness — the  ex- 
citement among  his  doctors  and  nurses — the  anxious 
waiting  for  the  first  words — the  first  clear  evidence 
of  restored  hearing.  And  then,  at  last,  the  dazed 
question — '  Where  am  I  ?  ' — and  the  perplexed  effort 
to  answer  Howson' s — *  Can  you  tell  us  your  name 
and  regiment? ' 

Howson  described  the  breathless  waiting  of  him- 
self and  another  doctor,  and  then  the  slow  coming  of 
the  words: '  My  name  is  George  Sarratt,  Lieutenant, 
2  ist  Lanchesters.  But  why ?  ' 

A  look  of  bewilderment  at  nurses  and  doctors,  and 
then  again — sleep. 

*  The  next  time  he  spoke,  it  was  quite  distinctly 
and  of  his  own  accord.  The  nurse  heard  him  saying 
softly — it  was  in  the  early  morning — "  I  want  my 
wife — send  for  her."  She  told  him  you  had  been 
already  sent  for,  and  he  turned  his  head  round  at 
once  and  went  to  sleep.' 

Howson  could  hardly  go  on,  so  keenly  did  he 
realise  the  presence  of  the  woman  beside  him.  The 
soft  fluttering  breath  unmanned  him.  But  by  de- 


'MISSING'  361 

grees  Nelly  heard  all  there  was  to  know;  especially 
the  details  of  the  rapid  revival  of  hearing,  speech, 
and  memory,  which  had  gone  on  through  the  preced- 
ing three  days. 

'  And  what  is  such  a  blessing,'  said  Howson,  with 
the  cheerfulness  of  the  good  doctor — '  is  that  he 
seems  to  be  quite  peaceful — quite  at  rest.  He's  not 
unhappy.  He's  just  waiting  for  you.  They'll  have 
given  him  an  injection  of  strychnine  this  evening  to 
help  him  through.' 

*  How  long?  '  The  words  were  just  breathed  into 
the  darkness. 

1 A  day  or  two  certainly — perhaps  a  week,'  he 
said  reluctantly.  *  It's  a  question  of  strength.  Some- 
times it  lasts  much  longer  than  we  expect.' 

He  said  nothing  to  her  of  her  sister's  visit.  In- 
stinctively he  suspected  some  ugly  meaning  in  that 
story.  And  Nelly  asked  no  questions. 

Suddenly,  she  was  aware  of  lights  in  the  darkness, 
and  then  of  a  great  camp  marked  out  in  a  pattern  of 
electric  lamps,  stretching  up  and  away  over  what 
seemed  a  wide  and  sloping  hillside.  Nelly  put  down 
the  window  to  see. 

4  Is  it  here?' 
,     *  No.    A  little  further  on.' 

It  seemed  to  her  interminably  further.  The  car 
rattled  over  the  rough  pavement  of  a  town,  then 
through  the  darkness  of  woods — threading  its  way 
through  a  confusion  of  pale  roads — until,  with  a 
violent  bump,  it  came  to  a  stop. 


362  '  MISSING ' 

In  the  blackness  of  the  November  night,  the  chauf- 
feur, mistaking  the  entrance  to  a  house,  had  run 
up  a  back  lane  and  into  a  sand-bank. 

'  Do  you  hear  the  sea  ?  '  said  Howson,  as  he  helped 
Nelly  to  alight.  '  There'll  be  wind  to-night.  But 
here  we  are.' 

She  looked  round  her  as  they  walked  through  a 
thin  wood.  To  her  right  beyond  the  bare  trees  was 
a  great  building  with  a  glass  front.  She  could  see 
lights  within — the  passing  figures  of  nurses — rows  of 
beds — and  men  in  bed  jackets — high  rooms  frescoed 
in  bright  colours. 

'  That  used  to  be  the  Casino.  Now  it's  a  Red 
Cross  Hospital.  There  are  always  doctors  there. 
So  when  we  moved  him  away  from  the  camp,  we 
took  this  little  house  close  to  the  Hospital.  The 
senior  surgeon  there  can  be  often  in  and  out.  He's 
looking  after  him  splendidly.' 

A  small  room  in  a  small  house,  built  for  summer 
lodgings  by  the  sea;  bare  wooden  walls  and  floor; 
a  stove;  open  windows  through  which  came  the  slow 
boom  of  waves  breaking  on  a  sandy  shore;  a  bed, 
and  in  it  an  emaciated  figure,  propped  up. 

Nelly,  as  the  door  closed  behind  her,  broke  into 
a  run  like  the  soft  flight  of  a  bird,  and  fell  on  her 
knees  beside  the  bed.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and 
cloak.  Excitement  had  kindled  two  spots  of  red  in 
her  pale  cheeks.  The  man  in  the  bed  turned  his  eyes 
towards  her,  and  smiled. 

'Nelly!' 


'MISSING'  363 

Howson  and  the  Sister  went  on  tiptoe  through  a 
side  door  into  another  room. 

4  Kiss  me,  Nelly!' 

Nelly,  trembling,  put  her  soft  lips  to  his.  But  as 
she  did  so,  a  chill  anguish  struck  her — the  first  bitter- 
ness of  the  naked  truth.  As  yet  she  had  only  seen  it 
through  a  veil,  darkly.  Was  this  her  George — this 
ghost,  grey-haired,  worn  out,  on  the  brink  of  the  un- 
known? The  old  passionate  pressure  of  the  mouth 
gone — for  ever!  Her  young  husband — her  young 
lover — she  saw  him  far  back  in  the  past,  on  Rydal 
lake,  the  dripping  oars  in  his  hand.  This  was  a 
spirit  which  touched  her — a  spiritual  love  which 
shone  upon  her.  And  she  had  never  yet  known  so 
sharp  an  agony. 

So  sharp  it  was  that  it  dried  all  tears.  She  knelt 
there  with  his  hands  in  hers,  kissing  them,  and  gaz- 
ing at  him. 

'  Nelly,  it's  hard  luck!  Darling,  I'd  better  have 
been  patient.  In  time,  perhaps,  I  should  have  come 
back  to  you.  How  I  got  away — who  planned  it — I 
don't  remember.  I  remember  nothing — of  all  that 
time.  But  Howson  has  heard  something,  through 
some  people  near  Cassel — has  he  told  you  ?  ' 

1  Yes — but  don't  try  to  remember.' 

He  smiled  at  her.  How  strange  the  old  sweetness 
on  these  grey  lips! 

'Have  you  missed  me — dreadfully?  Poor  little 
Nelly!  You're  very  pale — a  little  shadow!  Dar- 
ling ! — I  would  like  to  live ! ' 


364  *  MISSING ' 

And  at  that — at  last — the  eyes  of  both,  as  they 
gazed  at  each  other,  filled  with  tears.  Tears  for 
the  eternal  helplessness  of  man, — the  *  tears  of 
things.' 

But  he  roused  himself,  snatching  still  at  a  little 
love,  a  little  brightness — before  the  dark.  The 
strychnine  injected  had  given  him  strength. 

1  Give  me  that  jelly — and  the  champagne.  Feed 
me,  Nelly!  But  have  you  had  any  food? ' 

The  stress  laid  on  the  '  you,'  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
were  so  like  his  old  self  that  Nelly  caught  her  breath. 
A  ray  of  mad  hope  stole  in.  She  began  to  feed 
him,  and  as  she  did  so,  the  Sister,  as  though  she  had 
heard  Sarratt's  question,  came  quietly  in  with  a  tray 
on  which  was  some  food  for  Nelly,  and  put  it  down 
beside  her.  Then  she  disappeared  again. 

With  difficulty,  Sarratt  swallowed  a  few  mouth- 
fuls  of  jelly  and  champagne.  Then  his  left  hand — * 
the  right  was  helpless — made  a  faint  but  peremptory 
sign,  and  Nelly  obediently  took  some  food  under  his 
dimly  smiling  eyes. 

*  I  have  though  of  this  so  often,'  he  murmured — 
'  I  knew  you'd  come.  It's  been  like  someone  walk- 
ing through  a  dark  passage  that  was  getting  lighter. 
Only  once — I  had  a  curious  dream.  I  thought  I 
saw  Bridget.' 

Nelly,  trembling,  took  away  his  tray  and  her  own, 
and  then  knelt  down  again  beside  him.  She  kissed 
his  forehead,  and  tried  to  divert  his  thoughts  by  ask- 


'MISSING'  365 

ing  him  if  he  was  warm  enough.  His  hands  were 
very  cold.  Should  she  make  up  the  fire? 

'  Oh,  no, — it's  all  right.  But  wasn't  it  strange  ? 
Suddenly,  I  seemed  to  be  looking  at  her — quite  close 
— and  she  at  me.  And  I  was  worried  because  I  had 
seen  her  more  distinctly  than  I  could  remember  you. 
Come  nearer — put  your  dear  head  against  me.  Oh, 
if  I  could  only  hold  you,  as  I  used  to ! ' 

There  was  silence  a  little.  But  the  wine  had 
flushed  him,  and  when  the  bloodless  lids  lifted  again, 
there  was  more  life  in  the  eyes. 

*  Nelly,  poor  darling,  have  you  been  very  lonely? 
— Were  the  Farrells  kind  to  you?  ' 

*  Yes,  George,  very  kind.     They  did  everything 
— everything  they  could.' 

*  Sir  William  promised  me  ' — he  said,  gratefully. 
'  And  where  have  you  been  all  the  time  ?   At  Rydal  ?  ' 

*  No.    I  was  ill — after  the  news  came ' 

'Poor  Nelly!' 

'  And  Sir  William  lent  us  one  of  his  farms — near 
his  cottage — do  you  remember?  ' 

*  A  little.     That  was  kind  of  him — very  kind. 
Nelly — I  want  to  send  him  a  message ' 

'  Yes.' 

*  Give  him  my  grateful  thanks,  darling, — and — - 
and — my  blessing.' 

Nelly  hid  her  face  against  him,  and  he  felt  the 
convulsion  of  tearless  sobbing  that  passed  through 
her. 

*  Poor  Nelly ! ' — he  said  again,  touching  her  hand 


366  'MISSING' 

tenderly.  Then  after  another  pause — *  Sit  there, 
darling,  where  I  can  see  you — your  dear  head,  and 
your  eyes,  and  your  pretty  neck.  You  must  go  to 
bed  soon,  you  know — but  just  a  little  while !  Now 
tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing.  Talk  to  me. 
I  won't  talk.  I'll  rest — but  I  shall  hear.  That's  so 
wonderful — that  I  can  hear  you.  I've  been  living  in 
such  a  queer  world — no  tongue — no  ears — no  mind, 
hardly — only  my  eyes.' 

She  obeyed  him  by  a  great  effort.  She  talked  to 
him — of  what,  she  hardly  knew ! — about  her  months 
in  London  and  Torquay — about  her  illness — the 
farm — Hester  Martin — and  Cicely. 

When  she  came  to  speak  of  her  friendship  with 
Cicely,  he  smiled  in  surprise,  his  eyes  still  shut. 

*  That's  jolly,  dearest.     You  remember,  I  didn't 
like  her.    She  wasn't  at  all  nice  to  you — once.     But 
thank  her  for  me — please.' 

*  She's  here  now,  George,  she  brought  me  here. 
She  wouldn't  let  me  come  alone.' 

'  God  bless  her !  '  he  said,  under  his  breath.  *  I'll 
see  her — to-morrow.  Now  go  on  talking.  You 
won't  mind  if  I  go  to  sleep?  They  won't  let  you 
stop  here,  dear.  You'll  be  upstairs.  But  you'll  come 
early — won't  you?' 

They  gave  him  morphia,  and  he  went  to  sleep 
under  her  eyes.  Then  the  night  nurse  came  in,  and 
the  surgeon  from  the  hospital  opposite,  with  How- 
son.  And  Cicely  took  Nelly  away. 

Cicely  had  made  everything  ready  in  the  little 


'MISSING'  367 

bare  room  upstairs.  But  when  she  had  helped  Nelly 
to  undress,  she  did  not  linger. 

'  Knock  on  the  wall,  if  you  want  me.  It  is  only 
wood,  I  shall  hear  directly.' 

Nelly  kissed  her  and  she  went.  For  nothing  in  her 
tender  service  that  day  was  Nelly  more  grateful  to 
her. 

Then  Nelly  put  out  her  light,  and  drawing  up  the 
blind,  she  sat  for  long  staring  into  the  moonlight 
night.  The  rain  had  stopped,  but  the  wind  was  high 
over  the  sea,  which  lay  before  her  a  tumbled  mass  of 
waves,  not  a  hundred  yards  away.  To  her  right  was 
the  Casino,  a  subdued  light  shining  through  the 
blinds  of  its  glass  verandahs,  behind  which  she  some- 
times saw  figures  passing — nurses  and  doctors  on 
their  various  errands.  Were  there  men  dying  there 
to-night — like  her  George? 

The  anguish  that  held  her,  poor  child,  was  no  sim- 
ple sorrow.  Never — she  knew  it  doubly  now — had 
she  ceased  to  love  her  husband.  She  had  told  Farrell 
the  truth — '  If  George  now  were  to  come  in  at  that 
door,  there  would  be  no  other  man  in  the  world  for 
me !  '  And  yet,  while  George  was  dying,  and  at  the 
very  moment  that  he  was  asking  for  her,  she  had 
been  in  Farrell's  arms,  and  yielding  to  his  kisses. 
George  would  never  know;  but  that  only  made  her 
remorse  the  more  torturing.  She  could  never  con- 
fess to  him — that  indeed  was  her  misery.  He  would 
die,  and  her  unfaith  would  stand  between  them  for 
ever. 


36»  'MISSING' 

A  cleverer,  a  more  experienced,  a  more  practical 
woman,  in  such  a  case,  would  have  found  a  hundred 
excuses  and  justifications  for  herself  that  never  oc- 
curred to  Nelly  Sarratt,  to  this  young  immature 
creature,  in  whom  the  passionate  love  of  her  mar- 
riage had  roused  feelings  and  emotions,  which,  when 
the  man  on  whom  they  were  spent  was  taken  from 
her,  were  still  the  master-light  of  all  her  seeing — 
still  so  strong  and  absorbing,  that,  in  her  widowed 
state,  they  were  like  blind  forces  searching  uncon- 
sciously for  some  new  support,  some  new  thing  to 
love.  She  had  nearly  died  for  love — and  then  when 
her  young  strength  revived  it  had  become  plain  that 
she  could  only  live  for  love.  Her  hands  had  met  the 
hands  seeking  hers,  inevitably,  instinctively.  To  re- 
fuse, to  stand  aloof,  to  cause  pain — that  had  been 
the  torment,  the  impossibility,  for  one  who  had  learnt 
so  well  how  to  give  and  to  make  happy.  There  was 
in  it  no  sensual  element — only  Augustine's  '  love  of 
loving.'  Yet  her  stricken  conscience  told  her  that,  in 
her  moral  indecision,  if  the  situation  had  lasted  much 
longer,  she  had  not  been  able  to  make  up  her  mind 
to  marry  Farrell  quickly,  she  might  easily  have  be- 
come his  mistress,  through  sheer  weakness,  sheer 
dread  of  his  suffering,  sheer  longing  to  be  loved. 

Explanations  and  excuses,  for  any  more  seasoned 
student  of  human  nature,  emerged  on  every  hand. 
Nelly  in  her  despair  allowed  herself  none  of  them. 
It  merely  seemed  to  her,  in  this  night  vigil,  that  she 
was  unworthy  to  touch  her  George,  to  nurse  him,  to 


'MISSING'  369 

uphold  him;  utterly  unworthy  of  all  this  reverent 
pity  and  affection  that  was  being  lavished  upon  her; 
for  his  sake. 

She  sat  up  most  of  the  night,  wrapped  in  her  fur 
cloak,  alive  to  any  sound  from  the  room  below.  And 
about  four  in  the  morning,  she  stole  down  the  stairs 
to  listen  at  his  door.  There  one  of  the  nurses  found 
her,  and  moved  with  pity,  brought  her  in.  They 
settled  her  in  an  arm-chair  near  him;  and  then  with 
the  tardy  coming  of  the  November  day,  she  watched 
the  sad  waking  that  was  so  many  hours  nearer  death, 
at  that  moment  when  man's  life  is  at  its  wretchedest, 
and  all  the  forces  of  the  underworld  seem  to  be  let 
loose  upon  it. 

And  there,  for  five  days  and  nights,  with  the  brief- 
est possible  intervals  for  food,  and  the  sleep  of 
exhaustion1,  she  sat  beside  him.  She  was  dimly  con- 
scious of  the  people  about  her,  of  the  boundless 
tenderness  and  skill  that  was  poured  out  upon  the 
poor  sufferer  at  her  side;  she  did  everything  for 
George  that  the  nurses  could  shew  her  how  to  do — • 
it  was  the  one  grain  of  personal  desire  left  in  her,  and 
doctors  and  nurses  developed  the  most  ingenious 
pity  in  devising  things  for  her  to  do,  and  in  letting 
every  remedy  that  soothed  his  pain,  or  cleared  his 
mind,  go,  as  far  as  possible,  through  her  hands.  And 
there  were  moments  when  she  would  walk  blindly 
along  the  sea  beach  with  Cicely,  finding  a  stimulus 
to  endure  in  the  sharpness  of  the  winter  wind,  or 
looking  in  vague  wonder  at  the  great  distant  camp, 


370  *  MISSING ' 

with  its  streets  of  hospitals,  its  long  lines  of  huts,  its 
training-grounds,  and  the  bodies  of  men  at  work 
upon  them.  Here,  the  war  came  home  to  her,  as  a 
vast  machine  by  which  George,  like  millions  of 
others,  had  been  caught  and  crushed.  She  shuddered 
to  think  of  it. 

At  intervals  Sarratt  still  spoke  a  good  deal,  though 
rarely  after  their  third  day  together.  He  asked  her 
once — *  Dear,  did  you  ever  send  for  my  letter  ?  '  She 
paused  a  moment  to  think.  *  You  mean  the  letter 
you  left  for  me — in  case  ? '  He  made  a  sign  of 
assent,  and  then  smiled  into  the  face  bending  over 
him.  '  Read  it  again,  darling.  I  mean  it  all  now,  as 
I  did  then.'  She  could  only  kiss  him  softly — without 
tears.  After  the  first  day  she  never  cried. 

On  the  last  night  of  his  life,  when  she  thought  that 
all  speech  was  over,  and  that  she  would  never  hear 
his  voice,  or  see  a  conscious  look,  again,  he  opened 
his  eyes  suddenly,  and  she  heard — '  I  love  you, 
sweetheart !  I  love  you,  sweetheart ! '  twice  over. 
That  was  the  last  sound.  Towards  midnight  he  died. 

Next  morning  Cicely  wrote  to  Farrell : — 

*  We  are  coming  home  to-morrow  after  they  bury 
him  in  the  cemetery  here.  Please  get  Hester — what- 
ever she  may  be  doing — to  throw  it  up,  and  come 
and  meet  us.  She  is  the  only  person  who  can  help 
Nelly  now  for  a  bit.  Nelly  pines  for  Rydal — where 
they  were  together.  She  would  go  to  Hester's  cot- 
tage. Tell  Hester. 

'Why,  old  boy,  do  such  things  happen?    That's 


'MISSING'  37I 

what  I  keep  asking — not  being  a  saint,  like  these 
dear  nurses  here,  who  really  have  been  angelic.  I 
am  the  only  one  who  rebels.  George  Sarratt  was  so 
patient — so  terribly  patient!  And  Nelly  is  just 
crushed — for  the  moment,  though  I  sometimes  ex- 
pect to  see  a  strange  energy  in  her  before  long.  But 
I  keep  knocking  my  head  all  day,  and  part  of  the 
night — the  very  small  part  that  I'm  not  asleep—- 
against the  questions  that  everybody  seems  to  have 
asked  since  the  world  began — and  I  know  that  I  am 
a  fool,  and  go  on  doing  it. 

1  George  Sarratt,  I  think,  was  a  simple  Christian, 
and  died  like  one.  He  seemed  to  like  the  Chaplain, 
which  was  a  comfort.  How  much  any  of  that  means 
to  Nelly  I  don't  know.' 

She  also  wrote  to  Marsworth : — 

1  Meet  us,  please,  at  Charing  Cross.  I  have  no 
spirit  to  answer  your  last  letters  as  they  deserve. 
But  I  give  you  notice  that  I  don't  thrive  on  too  sweet 
a  diet — and  praise  is  positively  bad  for  me.  It 
wrinkles  me  up  the  wrong  way. 

'What  can  be  done  about  that  incredible  sister? 
She  ought  to  know  that  Nelly  is  determined  not  to 
see  her.  Just  think! — they  might  have  had  nearly 
a  month  together,  and  she  cut  it  down  to  five  days ! 

('  Dear  Herbert,  say  anything  you  like,  and  the 
sweeter  the  better!) 

4  Yours, 

1  CICELY.' 


CHAPTER  XVII 

*TT  TELL — what  news?'  said  Farrell  abruptly. 

y  V  For  Cicely  had  come  into  his  library 

with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  The  library  was 
a  fine  eighteenth-century  room  still  preserved  intact 
amid  the  general  appropriation  of  the  big  house  by 
the  hospital,  and  when  he  was  not  busy  in  his  office, 
it  was  his  place  of  refuge. 

Cicely  perched  herself  on  the  edge  of  his  writing- 
table. 

'  Hester  has  brought  her  to  Rydal  all  right,'  she 
said  cheerfully. 

'How  is  she?' 

*  As  you  might  expect.    But  Hester  says  she  talks 
of  nothing  but  going  to  work.     She  has  absolutely 
set  her  heart  upon  it,  and  there  is  no  moving  her.' 

'  It  is,  of  course,  an  absurdity,'  said  Farrell, 
frowning. 

*  Absurdity  or  not,  she  means  to  do  it,  and  Hester 
begs  that  nobody  will  try  to  persuade  her  against  it. 
She  has  promised  Hester  to  stay  with  her  for  three 
weeks,  and  then  she  has  already  made  her  arrange- 
ments.' 

1  What  is  she  going  to  do?' 
'  She   is   going  to   a   hospital  near   Manchester. 
They  want  a  V.A.D.  housemaid.' 
372 


'MISSING'  373 

Farrell  rose  impatiently,  and  stretching  out  his 
hand  for  his  pipe,  began  to  pace  the  room,  steeped 
evidently  in  disagreeable  reflection. 

'  You  know  as  well  as  I  do ' — he  said  at  last — 
1  that  she  hasn't  the  physical  strength  for  it.' 

'  Well  then  she'll  break  down,  and  we  can  put  her 
to  bed.  But  try  she  will,  and  I  entirely  approve  of 
it,'  said  Cicely  firmly.  *  Hard  physical  work — till 
you  drop — till  you're  so  tired,  you  must  go  to  sleep—- 
that's the  only  thing  when  you're  as  miserable  as  poor 
Nelly.  You  know  it  is,  Will.  Don't  you  remember 
that  poor  Mrs.  Henessy  whose  son  died  here?  Her 
letters  to  me  afterwards  used  to  be  all  about  scrub- 
bing. If  she  could  scrub  from  morning  till  night, 
she  could  just  get  along.  She  scrubbed  herself  sane 
again.  The  bigger  the  floor,  the  better  she  liked  it. 
When  bedtime  came,  she  just  slept  like  a  log.  And 
at  last  she  got  all  right.  But  it  was  touch-and-go 
when  she  left  here.' 

'  She  was  a  powerfully-built  woman,'  said  Farrell 
gloomily. 

'  Oh,  well,  it  isn't  always  the  strapping  ones  that 
come  through.  Anyway,  old  boy,  I'm  afraid  you 
can't  do  anything  to  alter  it.' 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  askance.  It  was  per- 
fectly understood  between  them  that  Cicely  was  more 
or  less  acquainted  with  her  brother's  plight,  and  since 
her  engagement  to  Marsworth  had  been  announced 
it  was  astonishing  how  much  more  ready  Farrell  had 
been  to  confide  in  her,  and  she  to  be  confided  in. 


374  'MISSING' 

But  for  her  few  days  in  France,  however,  with 
Nelly  Sarratt,  Marsworth  might  still  have  had  some 
wrestles  to  go  through  with  Cicely.  At  the  very 
moment  when  Farrell's  telephone  message  arrived, 
imploring  her  to  take  charge  of  Nelly  on  her  jour- 
ney, Cicely  was  engaged  in  fresh  quarrelling  with  her 
long-suffering  lover.  But  the  spectacle  of  Sarratt's 
death,  and  Nelly's  agony,  together  with  her  own 
quick  divination  of  Nelly's  inner  mind,  had  worked 
profoundly  on  Cicely,  and  Marsworth  had  never 
shewn  himself  a  better  fellow  than  in  his  complete 
sympathy  with  her,  and  his  eager  pity  for  the  Sar- 
ratts.  *  I  haven't  the  heart  to  tease  him ' — Cicely 
had  said  candidly  after  her  return  to  England. 
*  He's  been  so  horribly  nice  to  me ! '  And  the 
Petruchio  having  once  got  the  upper  hand,  the 
Katherine  was — like  her  prototype — almost  over- 
doing it.  The  corduroy  trousers,  Russian  boots,  the 
flame-coloured  jersey  actually  arrived.  Cicely  looked 
at  them  wistfully  and  locked  them  up.  As  to  the 
extravagances  that  still  remained,  in  hats,  or  skirts, 
or  head-dressing,  were  they  to  be  any  further  re- 
duced, Marsworth  would  probably  himself  implore 
her  not  to  be  too  suddenly  reasonable.  For,  without 
them,  Cicely  would  be  only  half  Cicely. 

But  his  sister's  engagement,  perhaps,  had  only 
made  Farrell  feel  more  sharply  than  ever  the  col- 
lapse of  his  own  hopes.  Three  days  after  Sarratt's 
death  Nelly  had  written  to  him  to  give  him  George's 
dying  message,  and  to  thank  him  on  her  own  account 


'MISSING'  375 

for  all  that  he  had  done  to  help  her  journey.  The  let- 
ter was  phrased  as  Nelly  could  not  help  phrasing 
anything  she  wrote.  Cicely,  to  whom  Nelly  dumbly 
shewed  it,  thought  it '  sweet.'  But  on  Farrell's  mor- 
bid state,  it  struck  like  ice,  and  he  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  writing  a  letter  of  sympathy,  such  as  any 
common  friend  must  send  her,  in  return.  Every 
word  seemed  to  him  either  too  strong  or  too  weak. 
The  poor  Viking,  indeed,  had  begun  to  look  almost 
middle-aged,  and  Cicely  with  a  pang  had  discovered 
or  fancied  some  streaks  of  grey  in  the  splendid  red 
beard  and  curly  hair.  At  the  same  time  her  half- 
sarcastic  sense  perceived  that  he  was  far  better  pro- 
vided than  Nelly,  with  the  means  of  self-protection 
against  his  trouble.  '  Men  always  are,'  thought 
Cicely — '  they  have  so  much  more  interesting  things 
to  do.'  And  she  compared  the  now  famous  hospital, 
with  its  constant  scientific  developments,  the  ever- 
changing  and  absorbing  spectacle  of  the  life  within  it, 
and  Farrell's  remarkable  position  amid  its  strenuous 
world — with  poor  Nelly's  '  housemaiding.' 

But  Nelly  was  choosing  the  path  that  suited  her 
own  need,  and  in  the  spiritual  world,  the  humblest 
means  may  be  the  best.  It  was  when  she  was  cooking 
for  her  nuns  that  some  of  St.  Teresa's  divinest 
ecstasies  came  upon  her!  Not  that  there  was  any 
prospect  of  ecstasy  for  Nelly  Sarratt.  She  seemed 
to  herself  to  be  engaged  in  a  kind  of  surgery — the 
cutting  or  burning  away  of  elements  in  herself  that 
she  had  come  to  scorn.  Hester,  who  was  some- 


376  *  MISSING ' 

thing  of  a  saint  herself,  came  near  to  understanding 
her.  Cicely  could  only  wonder.  But  Hester  per- 
ceived, with  awe,  a  fierceness  in  Nelly — a  kind  of 
cruelty — towards  herself,  with  which  she  knew  well, 
from  a  long  experience  of  human  beings,  that  it  was 
no  use  to  argue.  The  little,  loving,  easy-going  thing 
had  discovered  in  her  own  gentleness  and  weakness, 
the  source  of  something  despicable — that  is,  of  her 
own  failure  to  love  George  as  steadfastly  and  truly 
as  he  had  loved  her.  The  whole  memory-oiJier-mar- 
riage  was  poisoned  for  her  by  this  bitter  sense  that  in 
little  more  than  a  year  after  she  had  lost  him,  while 
he  was  actually  still  alive,  and  when  the  law  even, 
let  alone  the  highest  standards  of  love,  had  not  re- 
leased her,  she  had  begun  to  yield  to  the  wooing  of 
another  man,  -  Perhaps  only  chance,  under  all  the 
difficult  circumstances  of  her  intimacy  with  Farrell, 
had  saved  her  from  a  shameful  yielding — from  dis- 
honour, as  well  as  a  broken  faith. 

*  What  had  brought  it  about?  ' — she  asked  herself. 
And  she  asked  it  with  a  desperate  will,  determined  to 
probe  her  own  sin  to  the  utmost.  *  Soft  living! ' — 
was  her  own  reply — moral  and  physical  indolence. 
The  pleasure  of  being  petted  and  spoiled,  the  readi- 
ness to  let  others  work  for  her,  and  think  for  her, 
what  people  called  her  *  sweetness ! '  She  turned 
upon  it  with  a  burning  hatred  and  contempt.  She 
would  scourge  it  out  of  herself.  And  then  perhaps 
some  day  she  would  be  able  to  think  of  George's  last 
faint  words  with  something  else  than  remorseful 


'MISSING'  377 

anguish — 'I  love  you,  sweetheart! — /  love  you, 
sweetheart! ' 

During  the  three  weeks,  however,  that  she  was 
with  Hester,  she  was  very  silent.  She  clung  to  Hes- 
ter without  words,  and  with  much  less  than  her  usual 
caressingness.  She  found — it  was  evident — a  certain 
comfort  in  solitary  walks,  in  the  simple  talk  of  Mrs. 
Tyson,  and  '  Father  Time,'  who  came  to  see  her, 
and  scolded  her  for  her  pale  cheeks  with  a  disrespect- 
ful vigour  which  brought  actually  a  smile  to  her  eyes. 
Tommy  was  brought  over  to  see  her;  and  she  sat 
beside  him,  while  he  lay  on  the  floor  drawing  Hoons 
and  Haggans,  at  a  great  rate,  and  brimful  of  fresh 
adventures  in  'Jupe.'  But  he  was  soon  conscious 
that  his  old  playfellow  was  not  the  listener  she  had 
been;  and  he  presently  stole  away  with  a  wistful  look 
at  her. 

One  evening  early  in  December,  Hester  coming 
in  from  marketing  in  Ambleside,  found  Nelly,  sitting 
by  the  fire,  a  book  open  on  her  knee,  so  absorbed  in 
thought  that  she  had  not  heard  her  friend's  entrance. 
Yet  her  lips  seemed  to  be  moving.  Hester  came 
softly,  and  knelt  down  beside  her. 

'  Darling,  I  have  been  such  a  long  time  away! ' 

Nelly  drew  a  deep  breath. 

4  Oh,  no ! — I — I've  been  thinking.' 

Hester  looked  at  the  open  book,  and  saw  that  it 
was  *  The  Letters  of  St.  Ignatius ' — a  cheap  copy, 
belonging  to  a  popular  theological  *  Library,'  she 
herself  had  lately  bought. 


378  'MISSING' 

{  Did  that  interest  you,  Nelly?'  she  asked,  won- 
dering. 

*  Some  of  it ' — said  Nelly,  flushing  a  little.  And 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  pointed  to  a  passage 
under  her  hand : — 

'  For  I  fear  your  love,  lest  it  injure  me,  for  it  is 
easy  to  do  what  you  will;  but  it  is  difficult  for  me  to 
attain  unto  God,  if  ye  insist  on  sparing  me.' 

And  suddenly  Hester  remembered  that  before 
going  out  she  had  entreated  Nelly  to  give  herself 
another  fortnight's  rest  before  going  to  Manchester. 
It  would  then  be  only  six  weeks  since  her  husband's 
death.  c  And  if  you  break  down,  dear,' — she  had 
ventured — '  it  won't  only  be  trouble  to  you — but  to 
them  ' — meaning  the  hospital  authorities.  Where- 
upon for  the  first  time  since  her  return,  Nelly's  eyes 
had  filled  with  tears.  But  she  made  no  reply,  and 
Hester  had  gone  away  uneasy. 

'Why  will  you  be  so  hard  on  yourself?'  she 
murmured,  taking  the  lovely  childish  face  in  her  two 
hands  and  kissing  it. 

Nelly  gently  released  herself,  and  pointed  again, 
mutely,  to  a  passage  further  on — the  famous  passage 
in  which  the  saint,  already  in  the  ecstasy  of  martyr- 
dom, appeals  again  to  the  Christian  church  in  Rome, 
whether  he  is  bound,  not  to  save  him  from  the  wild 
beasts  of  the  arena.  '  I  entreat  you,  shew  not  unto 
me  an  unseasonable  love !  Suffer  me  to  be  the  food 
of  wild  beasts,  through  whom  it  is  allowed  me  to 
attain  unto  God.  I  am  the  corn  of  God;  let  me  be 


'MISSING>  379 

ground  by  the  teeth  of  the  wild  beasts,  that  I  may 
be  found  the  pure  bread  of  Christ.  .  .  .  Pardon  me 
in  this.  I  know  what  is  expedient  for  me.  I  am  but 
now  beginning  to  be  a  disciple.' 

1  Nelly  dear — what  do  you  mean?  * 

A  faint  little  smile  crossed  Nelly's  face. 

'  Oh,  nothing — only — '  she  sighed  again — ' It's 
so  splendid!  Such  a  will! — such  a  faith!  No  one 
thinks  like  that  now.  No  one  is  willing  to  be  "  the 
corn  of  God."  ' 

'  Oh,  yes  they  are ! '  said  Hester,  passionately. 
*  There  are  thousands  of  men — and  women — in  this 
war,  who  are  willing  to  do  everything — suffer  every- 
thing— for  others — their  country — their  people  at 
home.' 

4  Well,  then  they're  happy ! — and  why  hold  any- 
one back?'  said  Nelly,  with  soft  reproach.  And 
letting  her  head  drop  on  Hester's  shoulder,  she  said, 
slowly — 

*  Let  me  go,  dear  Hester — let  me  go  I  It's 
drudgery  I  want — drudgery'  she  repeated  with  in- 
tensity. '  Something  that  I  don't  want  to  do — some- 
thing that's  against  the  grain — all  day  long.'  Then 
she  laughed  and  roused  herself.  *  Not  much  likeness 
between  me  and  St.  Ignatius,  is  there? ' 

Hester  considered  her  gravely. 

1  When  people  like  you  are  wrestling  all  day  and 
every  day  with  something  too  hard  for  them,  their 
strength  gives  way.  They  think  they  can  do  it,  but 
they  can't.' 


380  *  MISSING1 

*  My  strength  won't  give  way,'  said  Nelly,  with 
quiet  conviction.    Then,  after  pausing  a  moment,  she 
said  with  a  strange  ardour — '  I  once  heard  a  story — 
a  true  story — of  a  man,  who  burnt  his  own  hand  off, 
because  it  had  struck  his  friend.     He  held  it  in  a 
flame  till  there  was  only  the  burnt  stump,  and  after 
that  he  forgave  himself  and  could  bear  to  live  again/ 

*  But  whom  have  you  struck,  you  poor  child ! ' 
cried  Hester. 

'  George! ' '  said  Nelly,  looking  at  her  with  bitterly 
shining  eyes. 

Hester's  arms  enfolded  her,  and  they  talked  far 
into  the  night.  Before  they  separated,  Hester  had 
agreed  that  the  date  of  Nelly's  departure  should  be 
not  postponed,  but  quickened. 

And  during  the  few  remaining  days  they  were  to- 
gether, Hester  could  only  notice  with  growing  amaze- 
ment the  change  in  all  the  small  ways  and  habits  that 
had  once  characterised  Nelly  Sarratt — especially 
since  her  Torquay  illness;  the  small  invalidisms  and 
self-indulgences,  the  dependence  on  a  servant  or  on 
Bridget.  Now  the  ascetic,  penitential  passion  had 
come  upon  her;  as  it  comes  in  different  forms,  upon 
many  a  man  or  woman  in  the  selva  oscura  of 
their  life;  and  Hester  knew  that  there  was  no 
resisting  it. 

Hester  went  back  to  her  '  Welfare  '  work.  Cicely 
travelled  between  Carton  and  London,  collecting  her 
trousseau  and  declaring  that  she  would  be  married  in 
Lent,  whatever  people  might  say.  Farrell  was  deeply 


'MISSING'  381 

engaged  in  introducing  a  new  antiseptic  treatment  of 
an  extremely  costly  kind  throughout  his  hospital,  in 
watching  the  results  of  it,  and  in  giving  facilities  for 
the  study  of  it,  to  the  authorities  and  officials  of  all 
kinds  who  applied  to  him.  A  sorrowful  man — but  a 
very  busy  one.  Marsworth  was  making  his  mark  in 
the  Intelligence  Department  of  the  War  Office,  and 
was  being  freely  named  as  the  head  of  an  important 
Military  Mission  to  one  of  the  Allied  Headquarters. 
What  would  become  of  Cicely  and  the  wedding,  if 
the  post  were  given  him,  and — as  was  probable — at  a 
day's  warning — was  not  quite  clear.  Cicely,  how- 
ever, took  it  calmly.  '  They  can't  give  us  less  than 
three  hours'  notice — and  if  it's  after  two  o'clock,  we 
can  always  get  married  somehow  by  five.  You 
scurry  round,  pay  fifty  pounds,  and  somebody  at 
Lambeth  does  it.  Then — I  should  see  him  safely 
off  in  the  evening!  ' 

Meanwhile  Bridget  Cookson  was  living  in  her 
usual  Bloomsbury  boarding-house,  holding  herself 
quite  aloof  from  the  idle  ways  of  its  inmates,  who, 
in  the  midst  of  the  world-war,  were  still  shopping  as 
usual  in  the  mornings  and  spending  the  afternoons  in 
tea  and  gossip.  Bridget,  however,  was  scarcely  em- 
ploying her  own  time  to  any  greater  profit  for  a 
burdened  country.  She  was  learning  various  lan- 
guages, and  attending  a  number  of  miscellaneous 
lectures.  Her  time  was  fairly  full,  and  she  lived  in 
an  illusion  of  multifarious  knowledge  which  flat- 
tered her  vanity.  She  was  certainly  far  cleverer 


382  *  MISSING' 

and  better-educated  than  the  other  women  of  her 
boarding-house;  and  she  was  one  of  those  persons 
who  throughout  life  prefer  to  live  with  their  in- 
feriors. '  The  only  remedy  against  a  superiority,' — 
says  some  French  writer — '  is  to  love  it.'  But 
Bridget  was  so  made  that  she  could  not  love  it;  she 
could  only  pull  it  down  and  belittle  it. 

But  all  the  same,  Bridget  Cookson  was  no  mon- 
ster, though  she  was  probably  without  feelings  and 
instincts  that  most  people  possess.  She  missed  Nelly 
a  good  deal,  more  than  Nelly  herself  would  have 
believed.  And  she  thought  now,  that  she  had  be- 
haved like  a  fool  in  not  recognising  Sarratt  at  once, 
and  so  preserving  her  influence  with  her  sister. 
Morally,  however,  she  saw  no  great  harm  in  what 
she  had  done.  It  was  arguable,  at  any  rate.  Every- 
thing was  arguable.  As  to  the  effect  on  Nelly  of  the 
outward  and  visible  facts  of  Sarratt's  death,  it  seemed 
to  have  been  exactly  what  she,  Bridget,  had  foreseen. 
Through  some  Manchester  acquaintance  she  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  occasional  news  of  Nelly,  who  was, 
it  appeared,  killing  herself  with  hard  and  disagree- 
able work.  She  heard  also  from  the  woman  left  in 
charge  of  the  Loughrigg  farm  that  all  Mrs.  Sar- 
ratt's personal  possessions  had  been  sent  to  the  care 
of  Miss  Martin,  and  that  Sir  William  had  shut  up 
the  cottage  and  never  came  there.  Sometimes 
Bridget  would  grimly  contrast  this  state  of  things 
with  what  might  have  happened,  had  her  stroke  suc- 
ceeded, and  had  George  died  unrecognised.  In  that 


'MISSING'  383 

event  how  many  people  would  have  been  made 
happy,  who  were  now  made  miserable ! 

The  winter  passed  away,  the  long  and  bitter  win- 
ter which  seemed  to  sharpen  for  English  hearts  and 
nerves  all  the  suffering  of  the  war.  On  the  Somme 
the  Germans  were  secretly  preparing  the  retreat 
which  began  with  the  spring,  while  the  British  armies 
were  growing  to  their  full  stature,  month  by  month, 
and  England  was  becoming  slowly  accustomed  to  the 
new  and  amazing  consciousness  of  herself  as  a  great 
military  power.  And  meanwhile  death  in  the 
trenches  still  took  its  steady  toll  of  our  best  and 
dearest;  and  at  sea,  while  British  sea-power  pressed 
home  its  stifling  grasp  on  the  life  of  Germany,  the 
submarine  made  England  anxious,  but  not  afraid. 

March  shewed  some  pale  gleams  of  spring,  but 
April  was  one  of  the  coldest  and  dreariest  in  the 
memory  of  living  man.  The  old  earth  in  sympathy 
with  the  great  struggle  that  was  devastating  and  sear- 
ing her,  seemed  to  be  withholding  leaf  and  flower, 
and  forbidding  the  sun  to  woo  her. 

Till  the  very  first  days  of  May!  Then,  with  a 
great  return  upon  herself,  Nature  flew  to  work.  The 
trees  rushed  into  leaf,  and  never  had  there  been  such 
a  glorious  leafage.  Everything  was  late,  but  every- 
thing was  perfection.  And  nowhere  was  the  spring 
loveliness  more  lovely  than  in  Westmorland.  The 
gentle  valleys  of  the  Lakes  had  been  muffled  in  snow 
and  scourged  with  hail.  The  winter  furies  had  made 
their  lairs  in  the  higher  fells,  and  rushed  shrieking 


384  *  MISSING' 

week  after  week  through  delicate  and  quiet  scenes 
not  made  for  them.  The  six  months  from  November 
to  May  had  been  for  the  dale-dwellers  one  long 
endurance.  But  in  one  May  week  all  was  forgotten 
and  atoned  for.  Beauty,  *  an  hourly  presence,' 
reigned  without  a  rival.  From  the  purple  heights 
that  stand  about  Langdale  and  Derwentwater,  to  the 
little  ferns  and  mountain  plants  that  crept  on  every 
wall,  or  dipped  in  every  brook,  the  mountain  land 
was  all  alive  and  joyful.  The  streams  alone  made  a 
chorus  for  the  gods. 

Hester,  who  was  now  a  woman  of  sixty,  had 
reluctantly  admitted,  by  the  middle  of  the  month, 
that,  after  a  long  winter  spent  in  a  munition  factory 
and  a  Lancashire  town,  employed  on  the  most  strenu- 
ous work  that  she,  an  honest  worker  all  her  life, 
had  ever  known,  a  fortnight's  holiday  was  reason- 
able. And  she  wrote  to  Nelly  Sarratt,  just  as  she 
was  departing  northwards,  to  say — cunningly — that 
she  was  very  tired  and  run  down,  and  would  Nelly 
come  and  look  after  her  for  a  little?  It  was  the 
first  kindness  she  had  ever  asked  of  Nelly,  to  whom 
she  had  done  so  many.  Nelly  telegraphed  in  reply 
that  in  two  days  she  would  be  at  Rydal. 

Hester  spent  the  two  days  in  an  expectation  half- 
eager,  half-anxious.  It  had  been  agreed  between 
them  that  in  their  correspondence  the  subject  of 
Nelly's  health  was  to  be  tabooed.  In  case  of  a 
serious  breakdown,  the  Commandant  of  Nelly's  hos- 
pital would  write.  Otherwise  there  were  to  be  no 


'MISSING'  385 

enquiries  and  no  sympathy.  Cicely  Marsworth  be- 
fore her  marriage  in  early  March  had  seen  Nelly 
twice  and  had  reported — against  the  grain — that  al- 
though '  most  unbecomingly  thin,'  the  obstinate  little 
creature  said  she  was  well,  and  apparently  was  well. 
Everybody  in  the  hospital,  said  Cicely,  was  at  Nelly's 
feet.  '  It  is  of  course  nonsense  for  her  to  lay  down 
that  she  won't  be  petted,  Nature  has  settled  that 
for  her.  However,  I  am  bound  to  say  it  is  the  one 
thing  that  makes  her  angry,  and  the  nurses  are  all 
amazed  at  what  she  has  been  able  to  stand.  There 
is  a  half-blind  boy,  suffering  from  "  shock  "  in  one 
of  the  wards,  to  whom  they  say  she  has  devoted  her- 
self for  months.  She  has  taught  him  to  speak  again, 
and  to  walk,  and  the  nerve-specialist  who  has  been 
looking  after  the  poor  fellow  told  her  he  would  trust 
her  with  his  worst  cases,  if  only  she  would  come  and 
nurse  for  him.  That  did  seem  to  please  her.  She 
flushed  up  a  little  when  she  told  me.  Otherwise 
she  has  become  horribly  Impersonal!  Her  wings  are 
growing  rapidly.  But  oh,  Hester,  I  did  and  do  pre- 
fer the  old  Nelly  to  any  angel  I've  ever  known.  If  I 
hadn't  married  Herbert,  I  should  like  to  spend  all 
my  time  in  tempting  her — the  poor  darling! — as  the 
devil — who  was  such  a  fool ! — tempted  St.  Anthony. 
I  know  plenty  of  saints;  but  I  know  only  one  little, 
soft  kissable  Nelly.  She  shan't  be  taken  from  us ! ' 
So  horribly  impersonal!  What  did  Cicely  mean? 
Well,  Cicely — with  the  object  described  in  full  view 
— would  soon  be  able  to  tell  her.  For  the  Mars- 


386  '  MISSING T 

worths  were  coming  to  Carton  for  a  week,  before 
starting  for  Rome,  and  would  certainly  come  over 
to  her  to  say  good-bye.  As  to  William — would  it 
really  be  necessary  to  leave  him  behind?  Nelly  must 
before  long  brace  herself  to  see  him  again,  as  an 
ordinary  friend.  He  had  meant  no  harm — and  done 
no  harm — poor  William!  Hester  was  beginning 
secretly  to  be  his  warm  partisan. 

Twenty-four  hours  later,  Nelly  arrived.  As  Hes- 
ter received  her  from  the  coach,  and  walked  with  her 
arm  round  the  tiny  waist  to  the  cottage  by  the  bend 
of  the  river,  where  tea  beside  the  sun-flecked  stream 
was  set  for  the  traveller,  the  older  friend  was  at  once 
startled  and  reassured.  Reassured — because,  after 
these  six  months,  Nelly  could  laugh  once  more,  and 
her  step  was  once  more  firm  and  normal;  and 
startled,  by  the  new  and  lonely  independence  she 
perceived  in  her  frail  visitor.  Nelly  was  in  black 
again,  with  a  small  black  hat  from  which  her  widow's 
veil  fell  back  over  her  shoulders.  The  veil,  the  lawn 
collar  and  cuffs,  together  with  her  childish  slightness, 
and  the  curls  on  her  temples  and  brow  that  she  had 
tried  in  vain  to  straighten,  made  her  look  like  a  little 
girl  masquerading.  And  yet,  in  truth,  what  struck 
her  hostess  was  the  sad  maturity  for  which  she 
seemed  to  have  exchanged  her  old  clinging  ways. 
She  spoke,  for  the  first  time,  as  one  who  was  mistress 
of  her  own  life  and  its  issues;  with  a  perfectly  clear 
notion  of  what  there  was  for  her  to  do.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind,  she  told  Hester,  to  take  work 


'MISSING'  387 

offered  her  in  one  of  the  new  special  hospitals  for 
nervous  cases  which  were  the  product  of  the  war. 
'  They  think  I  have  a  turn  for  it,  and  they  are  going 
to  train  me.  Isn't  it  kind  and  dear  of  them?  ' 

*  But  I  am  told  it  is  the  most  exhausting  form  of 
nursing  there  is,'  said  Hester  wondering.    '  Are  you 
quite  sure  you  can  stand  it  ?  ' 

*  Try  me ! '  said  Nelly,  with  a  strange  brightness 
of  look.    Then  reaching  out  a  hand  she  slipped  it 
contentedly   into   her   friend's.     '  Hester ! — isn't  it 
strange  what  we  imagine  about  ourselves — and  what 
is  really  true?    I  thought  the  first  weeks  that  I  was 
in  hospital,.!  must  break  down.    I  never  dreamt  that 
anyone  could  feel  so  tired — so  deadly  ill — and  yet 
go  on.    And  then  one  began,  little  by  little,  to  get 
hardened, — of  course  I'm  only  now  beginning  to  feel 
that! — and  it  seems  like  being  born  again,  with  a 
quite  new  body,  that  one  can  make — yes,  make — do 
as  one  likes.    That's  what  the  soldiers  tell  me — about 
their  training.    And  they  wonder  at  it,  as  I  do.' 

*  My    dear,    you're    horribly    thin,'    interrupted 
Hester. 

'  Oh,  not  too  thin ! '  said  Nelly,  complacently. 

Then  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  suddenly,  and  saw  the 
lake  in  a  dazzle  of  light,  and  Silver  How,  all  purple, 
as  of  old;  yet  another  family  of  wild  duck  swimming 
where  the  river  issued  from  the  lake;  and  just  be- 
yond, the  white  corner  of  the  house  where  she  and 
George  had  spent  their  few  days  of  bliss.  Slowly, 
the  eyes  filled  with  brimming  tears.  She  threw  off 


388  *  MISSING ' 

her  hat  and  veil,  and  slipping  to  the  grass,  she  laid 
her  head  against  her  friend's  knee,  and  there  was  a 
long  silence. 

Hester  broke   it  at  last. 

*  I  want  you  to  come  a  little  way  up  the  fell,  and 
look  at  a  daffodil  field.  We'll  leave  a  message,  and 
Cicely  can  follow  us  there.'  And  then  she  added, 
not  without  trepidation — '  and  I  asked  her  to  bring 
William,  if  he  had  time.' 

Nelly  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  said  quietly — 

4  Thank  you.     I'm  glad  you  did.' 

They  left  the  garden  and  wandered  through  some 
rocky  fields  on  the  side  of  the  fell,  till  they  came  to 
one  where  Linnaeus  or  any  other  pious  soul  might 
well  have  gone  upon  his  knees  for  joy.  Some  loving 
hand  had  planted  it  with  daffodils — the  wild  Lent 
lily  of  the  district,  though  not  now  very  plentiful 
about  the  actual  lakes.  And  the  daffodils  had  come 
back  rejoicing  to  their  kingdom,  and  made  it  their 
own  again.  They  ran  in  lines  and  floods,  in  troops 
and  skirmishers,  all  through  the  silky  grass,  and 
round  the  trunks  of  the  old  knotted  oaks,  that  hung 
as  though  by  one  foot  from  the  emerging  rocks  and 
screes.  Above,  the  bloom  of  the  wild  cherries  made 
a  wavering  screen  of  silver  between  the  daffodils  and 
the  May  sky;  amid  the  blossom  the  golden-green  of 
the  oaks  struck  a  strong  riotous  note ;  and  far  below, 
at  their  feet,  the  lake  lay  blue,  with  all  the  sky  within 
it,  and  the  softness  of  the  larch-woods  on  its 
banks. 


'MISSING'  389 

Nelly  dropped  into  the  grass  among  the  daffodils. 
One  could  not  have  called  her  the  spirit  of  the  spring 
— the  gleeful,  earthly  spring — as  it  would  have  been 
natural  to  do,  in  her  honeymoon  days.  And  yet,  as 
Hester  watched  her,  she  seemed  in  her  pale,  changed 
beauty  to  be  in  some  strange  harmony  with  that 
grave,  renewing,  fruitful  heart  of  all  things,  whereof 
the  daffodils  and  the  cherry-blossom  were  but 
symbols. 

Presently  there  were  voices  beneath  them — climb- 
ing voices  that  came  nearer — of  a  man  and  a  woman. 
Nelly's  hand  begun  to  pluck  restlessly  at  the  grass 
beside  her. 

Cicely  emerged  first,  Cicely  in  white,  very  bridal, 
and  very  happy.  Very  conscious  too,  though  she 
did  not  betray  it  by  a  movement  or  a  look,  of  the 
significance  of  this  first  meeting,  since  Sarratt's  death, 
between  her  brother  and  Nelly.  But  they  met  very 
simply.  Nelly  went  a  little  way  down  the  steep  to 
meet  them.  She  kissed  Cicely,  and  gave  Farrell  her 
hand. 

*  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come.' 

But  then  it  seemed  to  Hester,  who  could  not  help 
watching  it,  that  Nelly's  face,  as  she  stood  there  look- 
ing gravely  at  Farrell,  shewed  a  sudden  trouble  and 
agitation.  It  was  gone  very  quickly,  however,  and 
she  and  he  walked  on  together  along  a  green  path 
skirting  the  fells,  and  winding  through  the  daffodils 
and  the  hawthorns. 

Cicely  and  Hester  followed,  soon  perceiving  that 


390  '  MISSING ' 

the  two  ahead  had  slipped  into  animated  conversa- 
tion. 

'What  can  it  be  about?'  said  Cicely,  in  Hester's 
ear. 

'  I  heard  the  word  "  Charcot,"  '  said  Hester. 

The  bride  listened  deliberately. 

4  And  William's  talking  about  an  article  in  the 
Lancet  he's  been  boring  Herbert  and  me  with,  by 
that  very  specialist  that  Nelly's  so  keen  about, — the 
man  that  is  going  to  have  her  trained  to  nurse  his 
cases.  Something  about  the  new  treatment  of 
"  shock."  I  say,  Hester,  what  an  odd  sort  of  fresh 
beginning !  ' 

Cicely  turned  a  look  half  grave,  half  laughing 
on  her  companion — adding  hastily — 

'The  specialist's  married!' 

Hester  frowned  a  little. 

1  Beginning  of  what?  ' 

1  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  said  Cicely,  with  a  shrug, 
1  But  life  is  long,  Mademoiselle  Hester,  and  now 
they've  got  a  common  interest — outside  themselves. 
They  can  talk  about  things — not  feelings.  Good- 
ness!— did  you  hear  that?  William  is  head  over 
ears  in  his  new  antiseptic — and  look  at  Nelly — she's 
quite  pink!  That's  what  I  meant  by  her  being 
horribly  impersonal.  She  used  the  word  "  scientific  " 
to  me,  three  times,  when  I  went  to  see  her — Nelly! ' 

'  If  she's  impersonal,  I  should  doubt  whether  Wil- 
liam is,'  said  Hester  drily. 

*  Ah,  no — poor  Willy  I '  was  Cicely's  musing  reply. 


<MISSING'  391 

1  It's  a  hard  time  for  him.  I  don't  believe  she's  ever 
out  of  his  mind.  Or  at  least,  she  wouldn't  be,  if  it 
weren't  for  his  work.  That's  the  blessed  part — for 
both  of  them.  And  now  you  see — it  gives  them  such 
a  deal  to  talk  about' — her  gesture  indicated  the 
couple  in  front.  *  It's  like  two  sore  surfaces,  isn't 
it,  that  mustn't  touch — you  want  something  between.' 
'  All  the  same,  William  mustn't  set  his  heart ' 

*  And  Hester — dear  old  thing ! — mustn't  preach ! ' 
said  Cicely  laughing,  and  pinching  her  cousin's  arm. 
*  What's  the  good  of  saying  that,  about  a  man  like 
William,  who  knows  what  he  wants?    Of  course  he's 
set  his  heart,  and  will  go  on  setting  it.     But  he'll 
wait — as  long  as  she  likes.' 

1  It'll  be  a  long  time.' 

*  All  right !    They're  neither  of  them  Methuselahs 
yet.    Heavens! — What  are  they  at  now?    Ambrine! 
— she's  talking  to  him.' 

But  some  deep  mingled  instinct,  at  once  of  sym- 
pathy with  Nelly  and  pity  for  Farrell,  made  Hester 
unwilling  to  discuss  the  subject  any  more.  George's 
death  was  too  recent;  peace  and  a  happy  future  too 
remote.  So  she  turned  on  Cicely. 

'  And  please,  what  have  you  done  with  Herbert? 
I  was  promised  a  bridegroom.' 

1  Business ! '  said  Cicely,  sighing.  *  We  had  hardly 
arrived  for  our  week's  leave,  when  the  wretched  War 
Office  wired  him  to  come  back.  He  went  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  wanted  to  go  too,  but — I'm  not  to  racket 
just  now.' 


392  'MISSING' 

Cicely  blushed,  and  Hester,  smiling,  pressed  her 
hand. 

*  Then  you're  not  going  to  Rome?  * 

*  Certainly  I  am !  But  one  has  to  give  occasional 
sops  to  the  domestic  tyrant.' 

They  sauntered  back  to  tea  in  Hester's  garden  by 
the  river,  and  there  the  talk  of  her  three  guests  was 
more  equal  and  unfettered,  more  of  a  real  inter- 
change, than  Hester  ever  remembered  it.  Of  old, 
Farrell  had  been  the  guardian  and  teacher,  indoc- 
trinating Nelly  with  his  own  views  on  art,  reading 
to  her  from  his  favourite  poets,  or  surrounding  her 
in  a  hundred  small  matters  with  a  playful  and  de- 
voted homage.  But  now  in  the  long  wrestle  with  her 
grief  and  remorse,  she  had  thought,  as  well  as  felt. 
She  was  as  humble  and  simple  as  ever,  but  her  com- 
panions realised  that  she  was  standing  on  her  own 
feet.  And  this  something  new  in  her — which  was 
nothing  but  a  strengthened  play  of  intelligence  and 
will — had  a  curious  effect  on  Farrell.  It  seemed  to 
bring  him  out,  also;  so  that  the  nobler  aspects  of  his 
life,  and  the  nobler  proportions  of  his  character 
shewed  themselves,  unconsciously.  Hester,  with 
anxious  joy,  guessed  at  the  beginnings  of  a  new  moral 
relation,  a  true  comradeship,  between  himself  and 
Nelly,  such  as  there  had  never  yet  been — which 
might  go  far.  It  masked  the  depths  in  both  of  them ; 
or  rather  it  was  a  first  bridge  thrown  over  the  chasm 
between  them.  What  would  come  of  it? 

Again  she  rebuked  herself  even  for  the  question. 


'MISSING'  393 

But  when  the  time  for  departure  came,  and  Nelly 
took  Cicely  into  the  house  to  fetch  the  wraps  which 
had  been  left  there,  Farrell  drew  his  chair  close  to 
Hester's.  She  read  agitation  in  his  look. 

1  So  she's  actually  going  to  take  up  this  new 
nursing?  She  says  she  is  to  have  six  months' 
training.' 

1  Yes — don't  grudge  it  her !  ' 

Farrell  was  silent  a  moment,  then  broke  out — 

'  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  small  and  trans- 
parent as  her  hands  are?  I  was  watching  them  as 
she  sat  there.* 

'  But  they're  capable ! '  laughed  Hester.  '  You 
should  hear  what  her  matron  says  of  her.' 

Farrell  sighed. 

*  How  much  weight  has  she  lost? ' 

*  Not  more — as  yet — than  she  can  stand.    There's 
an  intense  life  in  her — a  spiritual  life — that  seems  to 
keep  her  going.' 

'  Hester — dear  Hester — watch  over  her ! ' 
He  put  out  a  hand  and  grasped  his  cousin's. 

*  Yes,  you  may  trust  me.' 

*  Hester ! — do  you  believe  there'll  ever  be  any 
hope  for  me? ' 

'  It's  unkind  even  to  think  of  it  yet,'  she  said 
gravely. 

He  drew  himself  up,  recovering  self-control. 

*  I  know — I  know.    I  hope  I'm  not  quite  a  fool  1 
And  indeed  it's  better  than  I  thought.     She's  not 
going  to  banish  me  altogether.    When  this  new  hos- 


394  '  MISSING ' 

pital's  open — in  another  month  or  so — and  she's  set- 
tled there — she  asks  me  to  call  upon  her.  She 
wants  me  to  go  into  this  man's  treatment.'  There 
was  a  touch  of  comedy  in  the  words;  but  the  emotion 
in  his  face  was  painful  to  see. 

*  Good ! '  said  Hester,  smiling. 

When  the  guests  were  gone,  Nelly  came  slowly 
back  to  Hester  from  the  garden  gate.  Her  hands 
were  loosely  clasped  before  her,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground.  When  she  reached  Hester  she  looked 
up  and  Hester  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

*  He'll  miss  her  very  much,'  she  said,  sadly. 
'Cicely?' 

'  Yes — she's  been  a  great  deal  more  to  him  lately 
than  she  used  to  be.' 

Nelly  stood  silently  looking  out  over  the  lake  for 
a  while.  In  her  mind  and  Hester's  there  were 
thoughts  which  neither  could  express.  Suddenly, 
Nelly  turned  to  Hester.  Her  voice  sounded  strained 
and  quick.  *  I  never  told  you — on  my  way  here,  I 
went  to  see  Bridget.' 

Hester  was  taken  by  surprise.  After  a  moment's 
silence  she  said — 

'  Has  she  ever  repented — ever  asked  your  forgive- 
ness?' 

Nelly  shook  her  head. 

'  But  I  think — she  would  be  sorry — if  she  could. 
I  shall  go  and  see  her  sometimes.  But  she  doesn't 
want  me.  She  seems  quite  busy — and  satisfied/ 


'MISSING'  395. 

'  Satisfied ! '  said  Hester,  indignantly. 

1 1  mean  with  what  she  is  doing — with  her  way 
of  living.' 

There  was  silence.  But  presently  there  was  a 
stifled  sob  in  the  darkness;  and  Hester  knew  that 
Nelly  was  thinking  of  those  irrecoverable  weeks  of 
which  Bridget's  cruelty  had  robbed  her. 

Then  presently  bedtime  came,  and  Hester  saw 
her  guest  to  her  room.  But  a  little  while  after,  as 
she  was  standing  by  her  own  window  she  heard  the 
garden  door  open  and  perceived  a  small  figure  slip- 
ping down  over  the  lawn — a  shadow  among  shadows 
— towards  the  path  along  the  lake.  And  she  guessed 
of  course  that  Nelly  had  gone  out  to  take  a  last  look 
at  the  scene  of  her  lost  happiness,  before  her  de- 
parture on  the  morrow. 

Only  twenty-two — with  all  her  life  before  her — • 
if  she  lived  I 

Of  course,  the  probability  was  that  she  would  live 
— and  gradually  forget — and  in  process  of  time 
marry  William  Farrell.  But  Hester  could  not  be 
at  all  sure  that  the  story  would  so  work  out.  Sup- 
posing that  the  passion  of  philanthropy,  or  the  pas- 
sion of  religion,  fastened  upon  her — on  the  girlish 
nature  that  had  proved  itself  with  time  to  be  of  so 
much  finer  and  rarer  temper  than  those  about  her 
had  ever  suspected?  Both  passions  are  absorbing; 
both  tend  to  blunt  in  many  women  the  natural  in- 
stinct of  the  woman  towards  the  man.  Nelly  had 
been  an  old-fashioned,  simple  girl,  brought  up  in  a 


396  '  MISSING  ' 

backwater  of  life.  Now  she  was  being  drawn  into  that 
world  of  the  new  woman — where  are  women  police- 
men, and  women  chauffeurs,  and  militant  suffragists, 
and  women  in  overalls  and  breeches,  and  many  other 
strange  types.  The  war  has  shown  us — suddenly  and 
marvellously — the  adaptability  of  women.  Would 
little  Nelly,  too,  prove  as  plastic  as  the  rest,  and  in 
the  excitement  of  meeting  new  demands,  and  reaching 
out  to  new  powers,  forget  the  old  needs  and  sweet- 
nesses? 

It  might  be  so;  but  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  Hester 
did  not  believe  it  would  be  so. 

Meanwhile  Nelly  was  wandering  through  the  May 
dusk  along  the  lake.  She  walked  through  flowers. 
The  scents  of  a  rich  earth  were  in  the  air;  daylight 
lingered,  but  a  full  and  golden  moon  hung  over 
Loughrigg  in  the  west;  and  the  tranced  water  of  the 
lake  was  marvellously  giving  back  the  beauty  amid 
which  it  lay — form,  and  colour,  and  distance — and 
all  the  magic  of  the  hour  between  day  and  night. 
There  was  no  boat,  alack,  to  take  her  to  the  island; 
but  there  it  lay,  dreaming  on  the  silver  water,  with 
a  great  hawthorn  in  full  flower  shewing  white  upon 
its  rocky  side.  She  made  her  way  to  the  point  near- 
est to  the  island,  and  there  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the 
water's  edge. 

Opposite  to  her  was  the  spot  where  she  and 
George  had  drifted  with  the  water  on  their  last  night 
together.  If  she  shut  her  eyes  she  could  see  his  sun- 
burnt face,  blanched  by  the  moonlight,  his  strong 


<MISSING'  397 

shoulders,  his  hands — which  she  had  kissed — lying 
on  the  oars.  And  mingling  with  the  vision  was  that 
other — of  a  grey,  dying  face,  a  torn  and  broken 
body. 

Her  heart  was  full  of  intensest  love  and  yearning; 
but  the  love  was  no  longer  a  torment.  She  knew  now 
that  if  she  had  been  able  to  tell  George  everything, 
he  would  never  have  condemned  her;  he  would  only 
have  opened  his  arms  and  comforted  her. 

She  was  wrapped  in  a  mystical  sense  of  com- 
munion with  him,  as  she  sat  dreaming  there.  But  in 
such  a  calm  and  exaltation  of  spirit,  that  there  was 
ample  room  besides  in  her  mind  for  the  thought  of 
William  Farrell — her  friend.  Her  most  faithful 
and  chivalrous  friend!  She  thought  of  Farrell's 
altered  aspect,  of  the  signs  of  a  great  task  laid  upon 
.him,  straining  even  his  broad  back.  And  then,  of  his 
loneliness.  Cicely  was  gone — his  *  little  friend  '  was 
£,one. 

What  could  she  still  do  for  him  ?  It  seemed  to  her 
tLat  even  while  George  stood  spiritually  beside  her, 
in  this  scene  of  their  love,  he  was  bidding  her  think 
ki'idly  and  gratefully  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
blessed  in  dying — the  man  who,  in  loving  her,  had 
meant  him  no  harm. 

Her  mind  formed  no  precise  image  of  the  future. 
She  was  incapable,  indeed,  as  yet,  of  forming  any 
that  would  have  disturbed  that  intimate  life  with 
George  which  was  the  present  fruit  in  her  of  re- 
morseful love  and  pity.  The  spring  shores  of  Rydal, 


398  '  MISSING ' 

the  meadows  steeping  their  flowery  grasses  in  the 
water,  the  new  leaf,  the  up-curling  fern,  breathed  in 
her  unconscious  ear  their  message  of  re-birth.  But 
she  knew  only  that  she  was  uplifted,  strengthened — 
to  endure  and  serve. 


/ 


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